


Revenge of the French Mistake

by SteelRigged



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - The French Mistake, And Now For Something Completely Different, Archangel Castiel, Attempt at Humor, Background Destiel, Castiel in the Bunker, Crack, Destiel - Freeform, Dom!Sam, Episode: s06e15 The French Mistake, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fem!Cas, Finished, Flirting, Fluff and Crack, Humor, M/M, Meta, Metafiction, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Episode: s06e15 The French Mistake, Rough Sex, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy, Shower Sex, Topping from the Bottom, lots and lots of nerdy flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6330430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteelRigged/pseuds/SteelRigged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You come from the AU featured in the French Mistake. After the worst migraine of your life, you wake up in the trunk of the Winchester's Impala. </p><p>Someone was trying to get rid of your doppleganger before she could get critical info about Castiel to Sam and Dean.  All you have are fan theories. Will you still be able to help?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Girl in the Trunk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girl_wonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_wonder/gifts).



> So this was written early in Season 11. 
> 
> Also, since I know that you need to know, the sexy stuff starts in chapter 8.
> 
> This work might not exist without "How Becky Totally Saved the World Without Becoming a Mary Sue or: PLEASE R&R OR I'LL NEVER WRITE ANOTHER CHAPTER" by girl_wonder. So go read that, too. https://archiveofourown.org/works/205042

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You glare at them. They glare at you. 
> 
> “When did you put a girl in the trunk?” Sam asks Dean, “And who is she?” 
> 
> “I didn’t do it,” Dean replies.

You’re doing laundry when you get the most ridiculously painful headache you’ve ever had. You go and curl up in your bed, with the lights out and the blanket pulled over your head. You silently beg the house to realize how uncomfortable you are, and just stop making noise. And it does get quieter, for a while, but then the house starts to rumble and you feel like you're bouncing. 

You try and roll over to get comfortable and realize the space has compressed around you. You’re in the trunk of a car. You start banging. And yelling. This is the worst migraine hallucination you’ve ever had. The car pulls over and when it opens up Sam and Dean Winchester are standing above you. The sunlight streaming down around them is painful.

You glare at them. They glare at you. 

“When did you put a girl in the trunk?” Sam asks Dean, “And who is she?” 

“I didn’t do it,” Dean replies.

They can't actually be Sam and Dean Winchester. But you're not going to be able to think of them as anything else. Hopefully, you can keep your inner fangirl locked up.

“Fuck,” you say, squinting and covering your eyes. “This is not happening. I mean this is cool. At least it could be. Sorta. The whole trunk thing is a bit more than I would have liked, but it's totally in character. Only, you’ve got the wrong girl.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Ha-Ha,” you reply sarcastically. “Listen, this is a great prank, for someone, but I don’t think it’s supposed to be me. I am not rich enough to hire you two. Nobody I know is rich enough to hire you two. So you’re people just grabbed the wrong lady. Luckily, I’m a fan. So why don’t we take a selfie, then you can get me a ride, and I won’t sue the CW for kidnapping and false imprisonment.” 

The trunk is harder to get out of than you expect. You can’t seem to get any leverage. You reach out a hand and Sam takes it. He pulls you out, looking confused the whole time.

“Lady,” Dean says annoyed, “nobody grabbed you. You just showed up in my trunk. I did not put you there. I did not put her in there!” 

He says that last bit to Sam. You get the impression he’s more interested in making sure Sam believes him than in convincing you.

“I’m totally impressed by your commitment, Jensen,” you say. “But seriously, you’re not going to get paid by me, or anyone I know. I didn’t enter a contest, either. Jeeze its cold.” The hot and humid Texas October has changed into a slightly frigid day with empty blue skies. The trees are wrong, too. “How long was I out? How far did we get?”

“Where did you start?” Sam asks giving Dean some side-eye.

“I am surprised _you're_ still in character, Jared, but I’ll play along.” You sigh and roll your eyes up to the sky. “I’m guessing were outside of Round Rock somewhere? We couldn’t have gotten too far from Austin. You’ve probably both have Halloween plans with your kids.”

“Kids?” Dean says surprised 

“Who do you think we are?” Sam asks, his brow furrowed. 

“You are Jared Padalecki,” you say pointing at Sam, “And you are Jensen Ackles,” you say pointing at Dean. “You work on a TV show called Supernatural. You are B-list celebrities in Austin, Texas, my home town. Sandra Bullock and Willie Nelson both have you beat, because of course they do.”

You wait for a response. Dean shrugs his agreement with the obvious. You keep going.

“The show has been doing a bunch of fan interactions recently as part of a ratings drive. This prank fits right in. But I am the wrong fan. I did not enter any of the contests.” You look at their faces and they seem disappointed. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely a little star-struck, but I’m not going to break down in tears or jump up and down, or whatever response you are looking for to make the video go viral. I’ll play along, but, you know, just, give me a cell phone so I can check in.” Neither one does anything. “Please?”

Dean looks like he’s about to start arguing, when Sam puts a big hand on his brother’s shoulder and then hands you his cell phone. “Can you give us a minute—” he pauses, waiting for your name.

“(Y/N),” you say.

“Just give us a moment, (Y/N).” His smile is well rehearsed. Charming, but not so charming that it’s insincere. He pulls Dean about 20 feet away, just far enough that they can whisper without you hearing. Instantly you dial your home number, but it doesn’t work. You try again. It should work. You should at least get voicemail. On the third try someone picks up but its not your roommate. After some words, you check the number and its definitely the right number, but the dude on the other end says that he’s had it for years and that there is no one else there. 

You check the phone again, looking for GPS. It says you're in Kansas. You can’t be in Kansas. You start checking other things, like the date and who the president is. It's all wrong. You google yourself. You know what you should find: your have an AVO site, and your name is in the Texas Tribune’s list of state employees. But when you put in your own name you get a website for a rabbi, and a series of articles about angles and apocalypses and the works of Carver Edlund. You suddenly feel like you are going to be sick.

The boys walk back over too you. “Okay,” Sam says. “Jensen and I are going to take you back to the studio. We’re gonna make a few calls and get this all sorted out.”

“What Jared said,” Dean adds. He’s got an uncomfortable tick as he says it. 

You can tell they are lying to you. Still you are in the middle of nowhere, on an empty road, and you know more about these two than any of your other options. So what else can you do?

“Okay,” you reply, tired of the whole thing. "Take me to your leader.” You climb into the back of the Impala. If you have been sucked inside of your TV, then you want to be with the Winchesters. 

The drive is silent. The landscape is wrong for Texas. Sam is messing about on his phone, and it occurs you you that you didn’t remove any of your searches. He doesn’t ask you about them.

This is ridiculous. Time for a little experiment.

“So Jared, what are your kids going to be for Halloween this year?” 

“Um,” Sam stammers, “Right uh. Well the bigger one is going to be a ninja. And the younger one is going to be a dinosaur.” 

“A dinosaur?” Dean asks.

“Kid’s love dinosaurs,” Sam replies.

The answer is as generic as it can be. Time to mix it up a bit.

“I thought little George was scared of lizards,” you say casually. Looking out a window.

Sam looks slightly panicked. “Well that’s what makes it such a good Halloween costume.” 

You nod to yourself. He’s lying through his teeth. You wonder how far you can push it.

“And Andrew’s going to be a ninja? How does your costume fit into all of that? ‘Cause I thought the coordinated family costume was the whole point. You were going to try and out-do N.P.H. this year.” 

“Yeah I kind of gave up on that,” Sam said, with a slight smile. “Nobody out Halloweens Neil Patrick Harris. Jen and I decided that it was better to just let the kids be kids.” 

Okay. So he does know something. He got his wife’s name right. But that hardly makes up for getting the kids wrong. This look-alike would have already lost at pub night.

“How is Jen since the accident?” you ask. “I don’t want to pry or anything. But it sounded terrible.”

“She’s doing better,” Sam replies, without missing a beat. “Thanks for asking.”

“What about your clan Jensen,” you ask, changing tactics. “What is Emma going to be for Halloween?” Dean doesn’t respond. 

Sam clears his throat. “Jensen,” he says, pointedly, “what is your daughter going to be for Halloween? What’s Emma’s costume?”

“Princess,” Dean replies, flatly. “She’s going as a princess.”

You can’t take it anymore. “Okay, you guys are lying through your teeth. And you need to tell me what’s really going on. You two look a lot like Jared and Jensen, but you don’t know their kids' real names, which is just pathetic for look-alikes. The GPS on that phone,” you point at Sam’s hands, “says we're in Kansas, the date is off by two years, and Google thinks I'm a fucking Rabbi. What the fuck is the point of this prank?”

Dean glares at Sam. “We aren’t actors or look-alikes,” he says. "That’s Sam and I’m Dean and we are the actual Winchesters. _Just go along with her,_ ” Dean parodies, “ _it’ll be easier._ We should have just knocked her out and put her back in the trunk!”

“What!” Maybe you really have been kidnapped. For lack of any better ideas, you kick the driver's seat. As hard as you can. It throws Dean for a second and the car swerves slightly on the empty road.

“What the fuck lady, we are trying to help you!”

“All I heard was that you stuffed me in your trunk!” you bark back. Then you kick his seat again.

Dean looks at Sam with a narrow-eyed grimace. It would be a clear order to fix this situation, if you were in the show that is.

A flutter of expressions cross Sam’s face. Not the least of which is amusement. 

“Look,” he says to you, “You’re from a world that’s parallel to ours. We’ve been there, once—”,

“Once was enough,” Dean adds.

“We saw the show you are talking about,” Sam continues, “but this isn’t that world, this is our lives.”

“That’s right,” Dean adds, “we’re real.”

Sam ignores him. “It takes some major mojo to cross from one dimension to another. Like serious archangel mojo. Which means something big is after you.” 

“Or maybe the other you that they kicked out of this this dimension,” Dean argues. “You are just an annoying placeholder.”

“That’s a possibility, too,” Sam agrees with a reluctant nod. “In any case, its our kind of thing. So we are going to try and figure it out and protect you. That’s what we do.”

“Unless you keep kicking my seat. Then I’m going to lock you in the trunk.”

“He’s not going to lock you in the trunk.” 

“Try and stop me.”

You swallow a sharp inhale of air. When did you start holding your breath? “Okay,” you let out a long sigh. “Okay. I’m not going to worry about whether or not I’m going crazy. I am too cold and too hungry and the visual details are wrong for this to be a hallucination. If I’m having a psychotic break, I can wait until we aren’t driving to throw a temper tantrum.”

Sam takes off his coat and he hands it it to you. “Sorry, you’re cold.”

You put it on and lean back against the Impala. The car is uncomfortable. The back seat smells like stale beer. This whole things has been physical in a way that dreams and fantasies aren’t. You close your eyes and count to ten, but when you open them back up, nothing has changed back to the way it should be.


	2. Elle, Ellie, Castiel, Cas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ellie, Elle, Castiel, Dean’s friggin’ wife, the Angel you’ve been hanging out with since at least Season 4?” 
> 
> “What?” Dean yelps. “When did Cas get a sex change?”
> 
> “When Misha Collins was kidnapped from set and murdered by a religious fanatic."

“Okay,” you say. “You’re hypothesis is that I have gone through my TV and I am now in an episode of Supernatural. Only to you it’s a parallel word where magic is real.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Sam leans over the back of the bench seat. He looks amused.

“So,” you continue, “We need to come up with some way to test this hypothesis. Something that will convince me that you two aren’t crazy look-alike kidnappers without a decent trivia game, and also, hopefully, that I am not having a full on mental collapse.” 

Sam smirks. “You have any ideas?”

“Lots. Mental collapse is harder to test. I’ll spin a top when we land. Make sure I watch until it falls. It’ll be a lot easier to start by testing the consistency of your story. So . . . why don’t you call Ellie. Let me see her appearing out of nowhere without camera effects and then I will accept that you aren’t lying to me.”

“Ellie?” Sam looks utterly baffled.

“Oh come on! I am doing my best to play along here! I’m totally in cannon. This is not a crazy request.” 

Sam squints at you.

“Ellie, Elle, Cas, Castiel, Dean’s friggin’ wife, the angel you’ve been hanging out with since at least Season 4?” 

“What?” Dean yelps. “When did Cas get a sex change?”

“When Misha Collins was kidnapped from set and murdered by a religious fanatic. They re-cast Daneel Harris in the role, because Ackles had a crush on her, and because the writers are all gender-essentialist, so rather than address the sexual tension that existed between two men, they just made one a woman."

You manage to get all that out in one long desperate breath. Sam is looking at you slack-jawed. Instinctively you start filling the silence.

"Luckily, the whole thing kind of backfired on them, because it forced the show to incorporate a semi-transgendered main character. Which brought all of the issues they were trying to avoid front and center. Dean couldn’t deal with fem!Cas actually being the same exact person as butch!Cas, so he started calling her Ellie.” 

Sam’s eyebrows have crept all the way up his forehead and Dean is white knuckling the steering wheel. 

“I babble nerd when I’m nervous. You wanna talk about a different show? I can can give you the long form theory on why Felicity Smoak is the platonic ideal of the DC heroine: a nerdy Jewish boy’s fantasy.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, with a genuine smile. “We can talk superheros later. Right now, tell me more about, Ellie, or Fem!Cas.” You can see the laughter starting around his eyes. He was trying hard to hold it together. “How did she and Dean end up married?”

“Sammy,” Dean says with warning.

“What?” Sam teases. “Its not you, right? Its a just a TV show.”

“Dean and Ellie aren’t actually married, well maybe they are sort of married, in some weird angel way that Dean didn’t fully consent to.” The words just pour out of you. You can’t seem to stop them. “The show is playing that whole sitcom will-they won’t-they game.” 

Sam is grinning a big wide grin at you. It makes you feel fluttery. You gulp and keep talking.

“The marriage thing was between season 7 and 8, we get it in flashbacks,” you smile back. It's hard not to. “Basically, Dean and Ellie, hooked up in purgatory, and possibly got angel married there. Then she stayed behind so Dean could get out, and there was much angst. They broke up for real, though, when Dean wouldn’t let her stay in the bunker, after she lost her grace, because Gadreel got testy. He thought she’d figure out he was possessing Sam if they shared space. That was a low point, like Ellie slept with other people low point. Lots of drama. Then she sort of forgave Dean, because Sam!Dean is the heart of the show, but they didn’t get back together. Though, we are all pretty sure in the fandom that they hooked up again, just after Dean lost the mark of Cain. But it’s kind of fragile. Because Dean is all mystically tempted by Amara, and trying to hide it from Ellie who’s doesn’t completely trust him, and she's also broken enough to be tempted by Lucifer.” 

Sam’s brow has furrowed unhappily. You rush to cover the gap. “Its the actors who ended up married-married. Jensen Ackeles and Daneel Harris.”

Dean is giving Sam the serious side eye. Probably because Sam looks like he has some serious questions.

“Well is she hot? This Fem!Cas chick?” Dean asks, changing the subject, before Sam can start his interrogation.

“Yes,” you answer. “Very hot. Blue eyes, dark hair, athletic build. I mean, not as hot as Charlie, but I think she’s hotter than, like, Lisa. Mostly because she has a personality.”

“Lisa had a personality,” Dean argues.

“I’m sorry.” You’re not sorry. “I guess in your world real Lisa could have had a personality, but on the TV show she was a pushover who didn’t do much more than let Dean showcase his mommy issues.”

Dean was grinding his teeth “How much of this show is about my love life?”

Sam puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean looks at Sam, takes a breath, and calms down.

You look between the two of them. “Okay. That was weird. I mean I love a geek fight as much as the next Sam-Girl, but it’s just a TV show. It’s not really about your love life.” You look at Sam. “He knows that it’s not really about his love life right? How accurate can the show be?”

“You’re a Sam-Girl?” 

“Don’t push it impostor.” 

He blinks at you.

“Well, has your TV show figured out how to deal with the Darkness yet?” Dean asks. 

“Not on air. There’s only spoilers and fan speculation.” 

Sam sighs, disappointed. “So, what has the hive mind decided.”

“Well, the favorite theory is that you’ll need Lucifer to fix it.”

“Lucifer?” Sam recoils slightly with raised eyebrows and a slight squeak in his voice. 

“Yeah totally,” you reply “because its ‘the Darkness’ and Lucifer is ‘the Light Bringer,’ and he must have done something to be god’s favorite before the fall.”

“Lucifer…” Sam seems suddenly kind of skittish.

“We really don’t want a repeat of what happened last time we ran into him,” Dean says. “Any part of it. And your reasoning is kinda thin.” 

“We’ll there’s also all that stuff Death said at the end of last season.” 

“Oh,” Sam asks “what stuff?” 

“That Lucifer sealed the darkness away. That being the seal on the darkness is what corrupted him in the first place.”

“Death talked to Dean about Lucifer?” Sam was peeved. “Has he told Sam yet?”

“I’m sure he’s getting around to it,” Dean answers before you can say anything.

“Just like he’s getting around to admitting he’s got a crush on Amara?” Sam is both sarcastic and condescending, with a slight dusting of disgust. 

“Okay,” you nod approvingly. “That was good patter. I’m sorry I insulted your skills earlier. But don’t think I haven’t noticed that no version of Castiel, fem or butch, has shown up. This is entertaining, but I’m still expecting someone to pop out and say, _smile you’re on candid camera!”_

Sam turns to Dean, still obviously peeved “He’s your wife.”

“Don’t!” 

“It explains a lot. I mean, you two have got a very profound bond.”

“Shut up Bitch, those were his words not mine.”

“Whatever, Jerk. Just pray.”

“We’re almost home.” 

“Then it shouldn’t be a stretch for him to pop over.” 

“I don’t see why we have to prove anything to her.” 

“Just do it.” 

Dean starts muttering, “Oh Castiel, in the bunker, we are about two miles away on the FM and we could use your input. There’s kind of a situation. If you’d care to join us.”

There’s a flutter of wings and then Cas appears in the back seat. Right next to you.

“Fuck,” you curse and pull to the opposite side of the car. “You’re dead!” 

“I am not,” Cas replies. 

You gently reach out to touch his arm. Then blink. Then pull back. Then touch his arm again. You know Misha Collins in dead. There was tribute. There was a memorial fund for Gishwshes. William Shatner gave a eulogy. 

“Pull over. Now. I’m gonna to hurl,” you say, and as soon as the car stops you stumble out the door and fall to your knees, dry heaving into the grass on the side of the road.

Sam, Dean, and Cas are talking among themselves, but the sound of your heaving is all you can hear. Cas comes over to help you. But you aren’t physically sick so there's not much he can do. You find yourself a little annoyed that neither of the Winchester’s bothered to hold back your hair. 

You don’t speak to anyone on the last two miles to the bunker. They don’t try to talk to you either.


	3. The Chuck Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have met Chuck,” Dean says, "There is no way Chuck can be god.”

The entrance to the bunker is bleak. The main hall smells funny. You’ve never thought about how it would smell: a little musty, a little like old beer, but also like sweat and bleach. You think this is probably what frat houses would smell like without maids.

The boys, the men, are all pretending they aren’t watching you, even though they are all watching you. As if you might throw up again, or worse cry and blubber. Fucking Winchesters.

You sigh.

“Okay, so first premise: no one is crazy, you or me. Second premise: I don’t belong in your world, you want the right person here, and I want to go home. Third premise: a creature of power made sure that she isn’t here and I am. Final premise: you are the real Winchesters and you solve these types of problems for a living. This is even like a case you’ve solved before. So Team Free Will is going to figure out who brought me here, and why, and maybe that will lead to the ‘how’ of getting me back to my very boring, magic free life.”

Sam and Dean look at each other, and then at Cas, and then at you. Sam looks earnest. Cas mildly intrigued. Dean throws his hands up and shrugs. 

“Okay. I give. If this was a normal case, we’d start by interviewing the witness, which is you.” His grin could be described as shit-eating, or maybe slightly vicious. “So, what do you remember?”

“I was doing laundry, then I” you pause, not sure how to say what comes next. “Then I got the worst headache of my life. Drop you to your knees kind of pain. I crawled into bed, having these dream bursts of images. Vivid, waking hallucinations.”

“You had a vision?” Sam asked. “What did you see?”

“It wasn’t really a vision. Not like I talked to a spirit or anything, just a bunch of weird shapes. Since you're real" you gesture to the Winchesters, "then maybe it was Enochian or magic symbols or something”

“Do you remember them?” Sam asks

“Maybe, I mean I thought I was seeing the amoebas that live on my eyeballs,” you sound annoyed. Possibly more annoyed than you feel. 

Sam twists his mouth hiding a smile and starts flipping through a journal on the war room table. 

Dean turns back to you. “Then what happened.”

“Then I was inside your trunk. I figured the whole event was trippy because I was drugged.”

“Okay,” Sam says, holding up a drawing. “Was this the symbol you saw?”

You squint a little. “I can’t tell. Maybe you could hit me on the head with a hammer and shake it slightly?”

Dean tilts his head like he’s considering it. Sam gives him a bitchface. Dean rolls his eyes at Sam and then frowns and faces you.

“Do you think you were brought here because of what you know about the show?” Dean asks

“That’s just stupid,” you say. Sam balks a little at the insult. Dean, however, grins at your impertinence. “If the goal was to bring someone here that knew about the show, why grab a middle grade fan like me? Get a producer, or one of the writers. No. I am collateral damage. We should be researching that Rabbi version of me instead.”

Sam looks a little insulted, though you have no idea why, but Dean and Cas both seem persuaded.

“Right” Dean says, turning to Sam, and over enunciating, “Because the show doesn’t matter. And nothing that happens on it has anything to do with reality.”

You figure out belatedly that they had their own discussion going on. Something you were not a part of.

“There has been a rabbi praying to me recently,” Castiel comments thoughtfully. “But, there has been a steady increase in individual prayers to me since the Carver Edlund books. This didn’t seem particularly worth looking into.”

“Yeah, Chuck,” you say, the gears grinding in your brain. “It’s pretty well accepted in my world that Chuck is god, or at least god’s current avatar. Maybe he can fix this?” You look up hopefully and everyone is looking at you like you have three heads. “Never mind that’s ridiculous, I get it. Chuck can’t intervene because that would undermine the existence of free will.”

“You think Chuck is God,” Castiel repeats, dry and incredulous.

“Well it’s a theory,” you reply. Suddenly shy about your head-cannon. Castiel glares at you. You start babbling. 

“In the pro column, he’s not like any of the other prophets. He’s not translating a received word of god, he’s writing the story. Maybe he’s creating it right before it happens, maybe right as it happens, but still he’s ‘The Author.’ Like what Metatron always wanted to be. He doesn’t have scribes anymore because now he’s got Microsoft word. On the con side, Kevin is the only other prophet we have to compare too. It’s a pretty limited sample. The only thing you could say for certain is that god on this show seems to like nerds. And that he’s a little misogynistic.”

Castiel appears to be calculating an enormous equation in his head. “You think. Chuck. Is. God,” he says slowly. 

“I mean, its not perfect, but if you accept the mathematical concept of omnipotence, which I do, then his writing/creative pace lines up. God has to wait for people to make their decisions, that’s the very minimum required for free will to have integrity. So god’s omniscience is knowing what’s most likely to happen once decisions have been made. If he’s clever, he could shove a few coincidences into place that are mostly invisible, but which make a difference through ripple effects. Like a toy solider that gets stuck in a car door. Omnipotence is a details game, especially when you are trying not to destroy the independence of the individual players. And if he’s very, very clever, maybe God can even make an appearance and give a few hints, as long as no one realizes its him, or treats it like he’s giving orders. So Chuck, what he does, what he notices, it fits with all that.”

“Don’t think too hard about it, Cas.” Dean says. “She’s been spewing crazy theories like this since she arrived. She thought we were married.”

Cas turns to stare hard at Dean. Sam turns to stare at Dean with his eyebrows raised. Dean blushes. 

“You’re a girl in her world,” Dean adds.

“Why would that make a difference?” Cas asks, honestly confused.

Sam’s eyes bulge.

“It would make a difference, Cas,” Dean says. Blinking. “I’m not gay. I’m not attracted to dudes. Like that.”

“It’s all playing out in reverse,” you mutter rolling your eyes, “but with fewer dick jokes.” 

“You’ve seen this before?” Sam asks. He actually kind of leans over and whispers it at you.

“Leviathan season,” you respond. “Dean’s suddenly all flirty and Cas is like _‘Why are you treating me differently than when I was a man?’_ and Dean's all _‘Don’t say that you used to be a man so loudly. There’s people around.’_ ” Your imitation of Dean is terrible.

“I do not sound like that,” Dean says.

Sam looks giggly. “Sometimes you do.” 

“You would flirt with me in public if I were a woman?” Cas says, confused.

“Cas!” Dean barks frustrated. “You say things like that, and it sounds like I flirt with you in private. When I don’t flirt with you at all.”

“Well,” Sam tilted his head to the side, indulgently, still clearly amused. 

“Shut up!” Dean orders. “You. Are not. Helping.” 

“Can we just get off this merry-go-round already?! Dean,” you say pointing at him, “nobody cares if you are bi, or whatever. I don’t know what trip John laid on you. He was mid-western, and old fashioned, and fucking wrong. Okay? And Cas,” you say turning on the angel, “drop the self-righteousness. Surfaces matter. They hold it all together. The way genitals connect, that matters, too. And you know the world is sexist. You’d even treat you differently in a female vessel.” 

Dean fish mouths at you. Cas cocks his head to the side thoughtfully. Sam takes your arm and tries to pull you away from both of them. 

“Don’t look at me like that!” you snap at Dean, as Sam tugs at you, “If you really didn’t want this to be all about your love life, you would stop bringing it up.” 

Sam snorts, and that makes you happy. Irrationally happy. Dean continues to glare. It might not have been a good idea to go off like that. Outing is brutal and should be saved for brutes. Plus, Sam is kind of standing defensively between you and Dean, so maybe he thinks somethings is going to happen? Cas looks from you to Dean and back again. You take a deep breath to apologize, but before you can say anything, Castiel interrupts.

“I think if Chuck were god, I would have known,” he says.

“Why?” you reply, shaken by the change of topic. “I mean I get that it’s kind of a _‘can he create a rock bigger than his hand,’_ question. But don’t you think if god wanted to obscure his powers and hide he could? Walk humbly among the people and all that. It’s been part of his shtick since forever, right?”

Castiel opens his mouth to talk, but then seems to decide against it. He closes his jaw slowly, and grits his teeth.

“I think I would like to go talk to Chuck,” he says, and then vanishes.

“Chuck is not God!” Dean yells after the vanished Cas. “Chuck is not God,” he says again, pointing at you.

You shrug. “Okay.”

Dean looks like he expected more of an argument. He doesn’t seem sure if he should stop pressing his case just because you agreed.

“I have met Chuck,” he continues taking a step closer. “There is no way Chuck can be God.” 

“Okay,” you agree again.

“He’s just a shlubby little dude who writes stories,” Dean says. He’s quite close now. Sam shifts his weight. It’s nice having him close. It’s nice that there is someone in this world you haven’t alienated yet. It’s probably more about keeping Dean from doing something he might regret than actually protecting you, but it’s nice.

“So you want god to be an alpha male?” you ask. “All, _‘Grrrr, testoterone and war.’_ That makes sense. I want a nice nerdy squint of a god who thinks that a bottle of wine, and a blond into S &M is exciting enough.”

“Universe is what it is,” Dean mumbles. 

“You’re universe. Not mine.” Suddenly you’re the one walking toward him and invading his physical space. “You know, on second thought, a shlubby little god like Chuck is exactly how you end up with all these stupid monsters. He’s the _‘nice guy’_ who needs to build a world where he’s important enough to be an asshole.” You put a finger on Dean’s chest and push, because you are not entirely in control of yourself. “You’re entire miserable, smug, little existence is nothing more than an extended D &D game for Chuck, fucking, Shirley.” Dean, looks confused by you. You feel confused by you. “And I’m not going to spend a second longer inside this damned TV show than I have to. Now can I have a computer. I have to Google myself!” 

A part of your brain that's still coherent tracks that your anger is completely irrational. It is not Dean’s, or Sam's, fault that you are stuck here. But it’s their show you are stuck in, so fuck them. 

“Sure,” Sam says, talking your shoulders and turning you away from Dean and toward the library table. “Sure. I’ll get you set up.” 

You let Sam guide you to the table and put you in a chair. He pulls out his computer and sets it in front of you. You realize your hands are shaking. Sam pulls up a chair beside you. He notices you are shaking, too. You get embarrassed. You open the computer and start typing just to keep your hands busy. Its better when your hands are busy.

Dean gives Sam a look, and Sam waves Dean off. They do that thing where they communicate with their expressions. You try to ignore them but there is too much freaking hand movement.

“I’m not crazy,” you say, while they pretend they aren’t looking at you. “I might be a bitch. But I’m also reacting as well as could be expected for someone who just jumped dimensions. I’m sure you two completely kept your shit together in my world,” you gulp, maybe you are on the edge of tears. “I feel like this whole universe is bad touching me.”

Sam gives Dean a pointed look. Dean throws his hands up in acceptance. “Okay. Whatever. I’m gonna go make dinner.”

You Google yourself and find the Rabbi whose got your name. You try to sort out the details of this other woman's life. She didn’t go to law school. She went to Rabbinical school. Her family died in mysterious supernatural circumstances. That sets you back. Your mother, father, sister, they all have obituaries. 

You go to the Supernatural wiki boards and see if you are signed in anywhere. But you don’t expect to be. You never really signed in at home. The wiki’s are totally behind here, because they stopped publishing the Carver Edlund books after the apocalypse. There is still a long thread on Chuck being God, though. You point it out to Sam.

“Wisdom of crowds and all that,” you say.

“Chuck?” Sam replies. He seems both skeptical and, well, disappointed.

“Does it make it better or worse to think that God really was, or is,” you frown, parsing the grammar ”watching over you?”

“I-” Sam starts, then stops. “I just don’t think it’s Chuck.”

You nod. You want to let it go. But you babble nerd and argue when you are nervous. And right now you are terrified. You want to go over every fact, of every theory, that might possibly help you get home.

“If free will and god both exist, it creates a lot of paradoxes,” you start. Facing the computer and fiddling around with websites that are all just slightly different than the ones you know. “Why does god let anything bad happen if he’s loving? We don’t have to assume he’s loving, maybe he’s just a sociopath. Anyway, an all powerful, all knowing god doesn’t have to let anyone suffer. So either god wants us to suffer, or he isn’t all powerful and all knowing.”

“Thomas Aquinas right?” Sam says. “Suffering is the result of free will.”

“I’m not a rabbi, but I was raised Jewish, so as far as I’m concerned if it’s theological it Maimonides or Hillel.” Sam’s mouth twinges at the edge, just the barest hint of a smile. “But I don’t think its a cause-and-effect relationship. More of an embedded correlation created by the nature of reality. In order for free will to exist, God has to have ceded control over the system. Randomness is introduced and randomness brings both joy and suffering.” 

You glance over at Sam and he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read. “Of course, all of that is easy for me to say. I’m an atheist. And I don’t have PTSD. Or at least I didn’t before this trip.” 

Sam smirks. “It’s hard to be an atheist when you hang out with angels. Though sometimes I think it would be easier. Let go of expectations and you can’t be disappointed when they don’t pay off.”

“Yeah,” your brain is working now, ”you know every culture has its creation myth. Angels could just be another species. A long lived species with their own weird creation myth that they’ve seeded over time into our human mythologies.” 

“Does your brain ever turn off?” 

“Does yours?” 

“Not really.” 

“But you learned how to keep your babble to yourself, right?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“You didn’t have to. I’m hungry,” you change the topic, before he can say anything that you don’t want to hear, “and I don’t think I’m getting anywhere.”

“Well,” Sam slaps his hands down on his knees. “Let’s go raid the kitchen.”

“I’m sorry I’m so grumpy,” you say, more to the computer than to Sam. “If you wanna talk geek about Star Wars, or Star Trek, or serial killers instead of Supernatural, just say the word.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says. “I’m enjoying your perspective on things.”


	4. Frozen Burritos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam puts the plate in front of you and sits down to your left. “So” he picks up his own burrito, “you think if you drop the right detail about the TV show, it will give us a clue?”

Sam stands up and pulls out your chair. He makes a sweeping gesture toward the back of the room. You walk in the direction he indicates, you aren’t walking ahead of him for long. Five steps and he’s in front of your again, leading you through the rooms. It’s not as big as it seems on TV, but it is more twisted.

“This place isn’t as big as it seems on TV,” you say. You really are fading.

“The Rabbi version of you, do you think her brain works the same way yours does?” Sam asks out of nowhere.

“Huh?” 

“Well you’re generating all these ideas. You’re just throwing them out one after another.” 

“Thank you, but I’m not thinking them all up on the spot or anything.”

“Okay,” Sam sighs, frustrated, "but still, do you think it’s inherent or learned from your particular life experience?”

“If she’s a Rabbi, she’s probably head girl of house Ravenclaw, too. Rabbis always are.”

Sam smirks at you and cocks an eyebrow. 

“Hey,” you say defensively. “Being a nerd is just a sign that you love things, and the world needs more love.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” Sam says, but he’s not very believable.

“Whatever Slytherin.” 

“I’m not a Slytherin,” Sam dismisses you, “I’m a Griffindor. I even got it on Pottermore.”

“Well, well, well. Good to know.”

“Dean got Hufflepuff.” 

“Of course he did!” 

Sam laughs a little, too.

“So, if the Rabbi thinks like you, maybe she came up with something she wanted to share with us. Something that the big bad didn’t want her to share.”

“Well yeah, that’s my working theory.” 

“You are awfully smug.” 

“This is not smug. This is terrified. When I’m smug I don’t have to say anything. And I definitely don’t pick fights with people who are taller and tougher than I am. All this verbal spew,” you circle the space in front of your face, “that’s terror. I don’t have any of the skills to survive in this word. I’ve never been in a real fist fight. I’ve never fired a gun. I don’t know any magic. I’m the friggin’ red ensign.” You’ve got your hand on your heart. How did that happen. Sam tilts his head at you, all indulgent, and that is infuriating. “Women like me die in single episodes, or we get possessed by demons," you say seriously. "All I’ve got is my geeky, nerdy memory about your stupid TV show. And that's your epic Sam Winchester.” You touch his arm. He’s touched you a couple of times, but its the first time you’ve initiated. He stiffens. “I just have to hope that I accidentally drop the perfect clue, and that you like me enough to work at keeping me alive,” you smile, “but not so much that your emotional arc would be improved by my death.”

“This isn’t a TV show,” Sam says, his voice is low and rough.

“Then its a Carver Edlund novel, and that’s not much better for me,” your eyes are leaking. They shouldn’t be doing that.

“Shhhh,” Sam leans forward, so that he’s on eye level with you. He rubs your shoulders. “How about I get you a frozen burrito.” He actually seems more centered now that you are starting to cry. 

“Okay,” you hiccup though your tears. He puts a big hand on the back of your neck and moves you toward sitting down at the kitchen table. He can move you around like that. He’s huge. And strong.

He checks on you more than once, while he’s running the microwave. 

He puts the plate in front of you and sits down to your left. “So” he picks up his own burrito, “you think if you drop the right detail about the TV show, it will give us a clue?”

“Yes.” Maybe you can hide your face behind the burrito.

“Why?” 

“Cause it’s the only thing I have to offer, and I’ll live longer if I’m useful. If you don’t need me to solve this mystery, then…” you trail off not wanting to finish the sentence.

“I told you this isn’t a T.V. show.” 

“So the pattern doesn’t hold then?” 

“What pattern?” 

“The whole dick-of-doom syndrome.” What the fuck are you doing? Shut your mouth. “On the TV show, its pretty much a death sentence for any girl that sleeps with you or Dean. Especially if there is any kind of emotional connection. Dean has fewer emotional connections so it affects him less. And his biggest love has been Ellie, who is an angel, and has kind of died and come back, more than once. So maybe she’s not really an exception. The women are there just to keep your emotional momentum up.”

“Well,” Sam shifts uncomfortably in his seat, “I have a lot of problems with that. But its not really an issue is it, because we haven’t slept together.”

“No. But, the sex is only the best marker. People drop dead around you and Dean like you’re eating their luck. And I’m not saying its your fault. Its just coincidental to the work you do. But I want to live. At least long enough to get home,” you suddenly realize that you are avoiding eye contact. That you have been since you first mentioned sex. You take a breath in and look right at him. “This isn’t my life. Even if the Rabbi is a hunter.”

Sam freezes. “The Rabbi is a hunter,” he repeats. “I gotta go make some phone calls” Then he leaves you alone with your embarrassment and your burrito.


	5. Sibling Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not a Becky. I want you to know that.” 
> 
> “Okay,” Dean rolls his eyes. “You’re not a Becky.”
> 
> “Though Becky really does deserve more respect than you’ve given her.”

You keep eating in silence. When you are done, you wander the bunker. You pass Sam working at his computer. You hear what might be gun shots coming from behind a closed door in a dim hallway. You don’t investigate. After a while you find an empty room and lay down. Its been a long day. Before you know it, you’re asleep.

The next morning you retrace your steps and find Dean in the kitchen cooking breakfast. Everything is fried. 

“What can I do to help?” you ask.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean replies.

“Like, I could set the table or something? If you point out where the plates are.”

Dean looks at you skeptically. ”Okay,” he points his spatula around the room. “Plates, glasses, silverware, napkins.”

You nod and start pulling dishes out and setting them on the table.

“You and Sam figure anything out last night?” Dean asks.

That you're a total spazz, who can’t keep her mouth shut. “No, not really. Sam was going to check if the Rabbi was a hunter of some kind.”

“What gave him that idea?” 

“The fact that I’m not one.” 

Dean snorts.

“I’m not close with my little sister,” you say. You are a total spazz who cannot keep her mouth shut.

“We’re sharing now?”

“I think that’s why I started watching the show. Why I really got into it despite how problematic the story can be.” Dean’s not listening to you. “I’m not a Becky. I want you to know that.” 

“Okay,” Dean rolls his eyes. “You’re not a Becky.”

“Though Becky really does deserve more respect than you’ve given her.” 

Dean groans and turns back to the stove. He cooks and you go set the table. You are an idiot. You didn’t need to say any of that to him.

“Why aren’t things good with your sister,” Dean asks surprising you.

The table is finished, so you sit down backwards in a chair and talk as he starts to fill the plates. “She’s got Asberger’s. And not the screen friendly super nerdy kind. That’s more me.” Dean snorts again, which encourages you. “She’s in her 30s and she’s got the social maturity of a 15 year old. I have nothing in common with her. Her thing is U.S. presidents. It was worse when she was younger and we didn’t have a diagnosis.” You start choosing your words carefully. It hurts to speak loosely about this. “She needed … care. The girl can get lost inside her own house. I spent a lot of my life sacrificing for her, even when I probably didn’t need to, even when it wasn’t going to make a real difference. But that’s what happened.”

“Sounds rough,” Dean pours coffee into cups. He sounds casual, but you hope it might be real sympathy in his eyes.

“It’s not the same as your rough, but sometimes it feels like there are giant cosmic forces trying to come between us, too. Only I can’t talk to her about any of it, not the they way you can talk to Sam. She can’t tell me what’s going on in her head. Your story, or at least the TV show that’s-sort-of-about your story, it resonates. Metaphorical, but still.”

“You’re lucky its just metaphorical.” 

“Yes. Absolutely. But it’s also wish fulfillment. Because I’ve wanted what you and Sam get. I've wanted to trust my sister like that, to get to depend on her, even if it was in a terrible impossible fight. But that will never happen. She’ll always be my sister, but she will never be my friend.” 

Dean looks at you then, really looks at you. 

“Everything gets materialized here. Nothing has a chance to stay silent and festering and internal. My sister and I will just linger in parallel lives that never connect. The one time we rough-housed as kids, she fell and cut her forehead on the coffee table. It took six stitches and I was convinced I had broken her. I wasn't allowed touch her without supervision for years. Compared to my family, you and Sam seem,” you look up at the ceiling, “magical. I’m probably not making a lot of sense.” You kind of grimace/smile, “Nobody likes it when you talk about having a sister with mental disabilities. And her version of Asberger’s, it is a disability.” Why are you defensive about things he hasn’t even said yet? “Everyone wants a fucking hallmark card.”

Dean furrowed his brow at you. “So, you don’t want the hallmark card?” 

You shrug. “Demons seem more realistic. Look, you and Sam call each other Bitch and Jerk. I could never do that with my sister. I can’t tease her. Ever. She doesn’t have the capacity to engage that way.”

Dean pulls out his own chair and sits down at the table. He picks up a stick of bacon and chews it slowly. “That sucks.”

“Yea, it does,” you pick up your own slice of bacon. "Being a sibling, has defined every aspect of my life. But I don’t really have a sister in any normal sense of the word.”

Dean’s looking at you like you might be human after all. There is silence and you let it ride. You aren’t quite as terrified as you were yesterday. Dean sips his coffee. You think he might be about to say something, when Sam walks in.

“What you guys talking about?” 

“Your developmental delay,” Dean replies without a pause. Giving you a wink.

Sam looks at you confused. You roll your eyes.

“I was explaining to Dean that I have a sister with Asberger’s and I started watching the Supernatural TV show because of sibling stuff. Not because I’m a Becky.” With Sam in the room its kind of embarrassing to say that.

“You are definitely not a Becky,” Sam replies. 

It crosses your mind that you should defend her the the way you did to Dean, but you don’t. “So did you find out if the Rabbi was a hunter?” you ask instead.

“Yeah,” Sam slurps his coffee. “She wasn’t. But she did do some research for a few folks we know. I think she worked with Rufus quite a bit.”

Dean’s expression perked up. “She was Rufus’s Rabbi?” he chuckles. “I wonder what he confessed to her.”

“Jews don’t have confessors.” You push around the eggs on your plate. “But he might need the occasional mikva, or some blessed chalk, or some other ritual item that a rabbi would keep around. There are plenty of stories about rabbis fighting demons. On the show you guys meet a golem, once. Did that happen here, too?”

“It did,” Dean replies. “So was rabbi you involved in the Judah Initiative?” 

“I don’t think so,” Sam answers for you. “But the mikvah thing is possible. Rufus always swore by them.”

“What’s a mikvah?” Dean asks.

“Ritual bath,” you reply for Sam. “Washes away spiritual uncleanliness. According to legend it can also break some curses.”

“Kind of the original baptism,” Sam adds.

“Oh,” says Dean. “Do Jews sprinkle or dunk?”

“Dunk,” you and Sam say in unison.

“Alrighty then.”


	6. The Rabbi's Hotel Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you feel uncomfortably like your doppleganger, when you were in my world?” you ask.

“Do Jews drizzle or dunk?” Dean asked.

“Dunk,” you and Sam say in unison.

“Alrighty then,” Dean comments.

You look at Dean and feel like an idiot. But then Sam smiles sideways at you. It happens really fast and you’re not entirely sure if it was a real smile. Sam might still be looking at you, too, but he's got just enough hair hanging down that you can't quite tell. You smile back, anyway, hopeful.

Dean cocks his head to the side and gives Sam a quizzical look. He stares until Sam meets his eyes. 

Sam swallows hard. 

That’s weird.

“I also found out where the Rabbi was staying in Lawrence,” Sam says putting butter on toast. “I figured we could head over there after breakfast and check it out.”

“Should I go?” you ask.

“Well,” Sam replies, “if you aren’t there, I’m not sure who I’m going to send in to ask for an extra room key.” He smiles again. “But I can jimmy the lock if you’re uncomfortable.

“I wanna go. The Rabbi isn’t that different from me. It’s like a life I imagined, but never lived. Maybe there’s a third parallel universe world where I write for T.V. and design costumes on the side.”

“What do you do?” Sam asks, “For real. In your world?” 

“I’m an attorney. I work for the state. Collecting taxes.” You sigh and pick at your breakfast. “Basically, I write letters that ruin someone else’s day. No one is every happy to hear from me.” You put some food in your mouth before you can say more. Self-pity isn’t something anyone likes at the table.

“I almost went to law school,” Sam says. He's got his hair in his eyes again.

“You would have ended up with hunters calling you in the middle of the night from jail. They would all skip town before their arraignments. They would never pay. You’d have had to make up the difference handling bitter divorces.”

“You speaking from experience?”

“Keen observation, my Dad was a hang-your-own-shingle attorney, with a fairly large number of disreputable old buddies. I’m a bureaucrat for a reason.”

“So, you don’t think I would have liked it.” 

He's teasing you. You note that Sam’s got a very dry sense of humor.

“I think you would have been bored. And I don’t think it would have been as meaningful as saving the world. I mean how often do you need to make a good impression at a cocktail party anyway? Is there a debutante of the proper age who’s mother you need to impress?”

“Yeah Sam,” Dean asks peering over his coffee, “just who are you flirting with these days?”

Sam gives Dean a look that makes you think they’ve been talking without you, again. It’s hard not getting to listen in on the bromance moments. Things really loose a lot of context.

Dean shakes his head and downs the rest of his coffee, “Let’s go check out the Rabbi’s hotel room.” 

You drive to the hotel. Nobody says anything else. You find yourself nervous. You want to babble, but you don’t know what to babble about. 

“Can I look at your tape collection?” you ask Dean.

“Sure” he says and orders Sam to hand the box back to you with a nod of his head. You fondle the tapes thinking about music, which is better than slipping into panic.

“You a classic rock fan?” Dean asks hopefully.

“I’m a dilettante,” you respond truthfully. “I’ve listened to most of these but I’m not a connoisseur. I only really know the biggest hits.” 

“What kind of music do you like?” Sam asks. You look up at him like that’s the most ridiculous question he could ever ask.

“Well,” you respond, “the last albums I bought was Bjork’s Biophilia and Beyonce's Beyonce, and then I bought the extended dance mix of David Bowie’s Underground from Labyrinth, and Bad Girls by M.I.A., which I should have bought years ago.” You tilt your head at Sam, this is too good a set up to skip. “What do you like?” you ask. “I bet you go for intellectual singer songwriters, Iron & Wine or the Decemberists?”

Before he can answer Cas appears in the car. Forcing you to scoot over and give him some extra room. You blink slightly. Sam never gets to talk about the music he likes in the show. Maybe in this reality he'll get interrupted when ever anyone brings up the subject. 

“Cas!” Dean says joyfully, “How did your meeting with Chuck go.”

“Chuck denies that he is God. I was not able to prove or disprove the – fan theory” Cas glances at you.

You shrug.“The ambiguity is the point?” 

The Impala pulls into the motel and Sam sends you to get an extra key for the Rabbi’s room. You don’t have any trouble with the clerk and you're walking into the room with Team Free Will in less than 5 minutes.

The room is relatively bare. There is a suitcase full of clothes that are two sizes smaller than you are right now. _Le sigh._ You pull a computer out of the bag and rush to plug it in.

“Maybe I can guess the password.”

You get it on the first try.

“That’s impressive,” Sam says. 

“Did you feel uncomfortably like your doppleganger, when you were in my world?” 

Sam smiles wanly and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “The actor? Not really. He actually seemed like kind of a douche.”

“He gives a lot to charity. I mean, he’s got to be crazy vain cause he’s got that same kinda hair you do," Sam blushes slightly when you tease him. Gorgeous. "But I don’t think he’s bad for an actor. Loves his wife and all that. Did you meet her?”

Sam fidgets. His long fingers drumming nervously on his jeans.

“Sorry. I forgot for a minute she played Ruby. Did your Ruby look like her? I can see how that would have been weird.”

“Yeah,” Sam’s voiced is unexpectedly hushed. “She looked a lot like Ruby.”

“She looked exactly like Ruby,” Dean says. Which makes Sam jump slightly then turn around and glare at him. “I mean Ruby was always hot. She was an evil, manipulative, lying bitch, but hot.”

“Well the lady in my world is not a demon,” you feel kind of defensive. Why are you defensive? Its not like you’ve met any of these people. “She got a lot of hate from folks that couldn’t see the difference between the actress and her character.” 

“Sam saw the difference,” Dean says lecherously, wiggling his eyebrows “Didn’t you?”

“Dean, please.”

“What?” Dean says. “It’s not like I can ruin the lady’s reputation, all she did was sleep with a better version of her husband.”

Sam looks really embarrassed, now. You blink at him. Sleeping with a married woman seems out of character for Sam, but his embarrassment is also just--funny. Who's he worried about impressing? And, frankly, you agree with Dean's assessment. You think suddenly how kind it was that he let you putter around on his computer doing useless internet searches when he could have been doing useful searches, like when he found this hotel room.

You push the computer toward him. “You wanna have a look?” 

“Sure,” he grabs the laptop with more relief than you expect, swinging around to face the wall.

Dean squawks over the suitcase. “Hey, look at this! There’s a proof copy of the next Copernica Tate novel in here.”

“No way!” Sam says looking up. “That’s not supposed to come for, like, another year.”

“Who’s Copernica Tate?” you ask. 

“She writes these sci-fi books that Sam likes,” Dean says, flipping through the pages.

“You read them all, too.” 

Dean ignores him.

“You like sci-fi?” you ask Sam. “I thought it was all true crime and serial killers.”

“I like those, too,” Sam gives you a shy smile.

“Oh, spoilers ahead!” Dean calls out. “The daughters are all grown up, and Princess Pirazade wants to steal a Dragonship, your boy Aladdin’s trying to talk her out of it. Hypocrite.” Dean flips a couple pages, “Oh name drop, looks like Sinbad the Sailor is now a character.”

“What the fuck!” you bounce over the bed and pull the galley out of Dean’s hands. “This got published!” You flip through it laughing “Copernica Tate. That's a terrible pen name.” You're hopping from one foot to another on the bed. 

“Okay psycho,” Dean says “You can have the first look.” 

“I wrote this! Well actually, I’m writing this. Like the first book of this series. I’ve been working on it for the past seven years!”

“You’re Copernica Tate?” Sam asks.

“The Rabbi is Copernica Tate. I’m using my real name. I don’t have to pretend I don’t like trashy Sci-Fi.” You smile the first genuine smile since you arrived, and cradle the manuscript to your chest. Dean's eyes are a little wide. 

“So you liked the book?” you ask. The question makes you feel vulnerable.

“Well, you know,” Dean shrugs, focusing on something in the middle distance, “it was a pretty good read.”

“They both found the novel very compelling,” remarks Cas. “I believe there was a fight over who would get to read the second book first.”

“Really?” You feel giddy. “Who won?”

“Sam,” Cas replies. 

“Only because he cheated,” Dean interjects.

“It wasn’t cheating,” Sam counters. “It was planning.” 

“What’d you do?” you ask.

“I distracted him with porn and onion rings.” 

You giggle. They like your writing! Sam smiles at you. Dean rolls his eyes. Cas looks confused.

“I was confused by the books,” Cas says. “Why does Zahara sleep with Nusair in the first book if she doesn’t actually fall in love with him until the second book?”

“Um, because, she thinks he’s hot." This is Cas. Don't be rude. You take a calming breath. "Sometimes people have sex just for that moment of connection, even if they don't think it can last. They had a connection, not enough to be love, but something that made them both feel good.”

“Sex does generally feel good,” Cas agrees thoughtfully, furrowing his brow, "I have doubts about the morality of enjoying it for its own sake, though.” 

Dean covers his eyes, hand to forehead.

"Cas you can't take Chuck's madonna/whore paradox to heart," you say. "Well you _can_ , lots of people do, then they spend the rest of their lives having bad, repressed sex. You can be a good a righteous person while still being a hedonist. I mean, that's like Dean's whole persona. Don't you think it's alienating when you just offhandedly condemn such a central aspect of who his is? Do you want to add to his guilt?"

“Okay, okay, enough of this,” Dean says. “Cas if you need an extended session with Dr. Ruth here, you can do it in private.”

“Guys,” Sam interrupts. “Check this out.” 

“Thank god,” Dean replies. "Something normal."


	7. The Archangel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hear you know something worth knowing,”

“It looks like the Rabbi got our numbers from Chuck,” Sam says.

“She was here on a mission from god?” Cas asks.

Everyone looks at Cas to see if he knows he’s making a joke. 

“I realize that Chuck has not been conclusively proven to be god,” Cas says in response to the stares, “but the thought is oddly reassuring to me.” 

“Seriously,” you say, giving Dean the side eye “you’ve never watched the Blues Brothers with him?”

“Hasn’t been a lot of down time lately,” Dean mumbles.

“So the Rabbi says she ran across some information on Castiel in an old library in Europe,” Sam starts again.

“Me?” Cas responds confused.

“She told Chuck that she wanted to get in touch with us,” Sam continues, “and explain that she knew we were real, because she used to know Rufus.”

“Called it,” Dean says.

“She tells him that if he can help her find us, she will get her publisher to reissue the Supernatural books, and that she’d blurb and promote them. She suggests a joint book tour.”

“I like this lady less,” Dean says. 

You say, “I have pull with a publisher?” at almost the exact same moment. The absurdity of the situation hits you. “Bargaining with god. That’s so Jewish it hurts. Why is Rabbi me so much more badass than real me?”

Dean gives you an exasperated look, while Sam swallows a smile.

“What information did she have about me?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t know.” Sam replies. “There are a couple of heavily encrypted files on the computer. I’ll need time to decode them.”

“It probably about Cas being an Archangel,” you say.

“Say what?” Dean barks.

“I am not an archangel,” Cas intones.

“Oh like you would know? Naomi has rewired your brain so often you are autistic compared to all the other angels. I should know.”

“Cas,” Sam said seriously. “I thought Naomi only screwed with your head that once.”

Cas pauses. Then starts speaking slowly as if he’s embarrassed. “When I was guarding the Angel tablet, she said that I was a spanner in the works, and that they had been trying to correct me for millenniums.” 

“You didn’t tell us that,” Dean says, probably more hurt by the omission than he should be.

Cas furrows his brow. “It didn’t seem relevant after Naomi died.”

“Anyway,” you interrupt, “in my world you can find it on Wikipedia. Castiel, archangel of sorrow and solitude, associated with Thursday in the Catholic church or Saturday, in Jewish tradition. The Catholics says that archangel Castiel is particularly responsive to those who are grieving, and that he attends the death of kings,” you point at Castiel, “which means you are the one that sat shiva over Christ’s abandoned body for those two days he was dead.”

“I don’t remember that,” Castiel says. 

“Well what do you remember about those days?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Castiel responds, frowning. 

“And that’s weird right?” you follow up, feeling like you’ve won at a deposition. “You should remember something shouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “I should remember something about those days.”

Sam blinks and searches Wikipedia. “I’m not seeing anything for Castiel.” 

“Were you really expecting to?” Dean asks 

“Try Cassiel, with no “t” you offer. Also maybe angels of seventh heaven in the Kabballah. Or, um,” you turn your eyes to the ceiling and try desperately to remember that thing you saw, that one time. “There were a couple of really weird spellings, like with a Q instead of a C: Q-U-A-F-F-I-E-L”

“How do you remember that?” Dean wonders skeptical.

You waive the manuscript at him. “I’m a writer and an attorney. My brain is hard-wired for trivia.”

“Okay” Sam says, surprise in his voice. “Here’s the Wikipedia entry:

"Qafkiel (Hebrew קפציאל) is an angel in post-biblical Judeo-Christian religion, particularly that of the Kabbalah. Unlike many other angels, Qafkiel is known for simply watching the events of the cosmos unfold with little interference. He is the angel of solitude and tears, and is said to preside over the deaths of kings. 

Qafkiel’s name occurs with the same frequency as several more famous archangels and he is attributed similar powers. However he is no longer listed among the archangels. There are references in Jewish texts to the fall of Qafkiel, which has led to speculation that he was among the host of rebellious angels that rose up against god with Lucifer.

However, other sources believe The Fall of Qafkiel to be the gospel revealed when Qafkiel, refused to choose a side in the uprising but instead attended to God as he would any other fallen/falling king. In legend, the text is a long examination of free will structured as a conversation between Qafkiel and God. 

Qafkiel can also be called: Casiel, Cassel, Cassiel, Castiel, Casitiel, Castael, Kaziel, Kafkiel, Qafsiel, Qaphsiel, Qaspiel, Quaphsiel. He is also known as the angel of temperance.”

The room stands silent as Sam finishes reading.

“Dude,” Dean says, looking Cas, “You’re an Archangel.” His face is open and hopeful.

“Dean,” Cas replies, pained. “I’m not an archangel.”

“We’ll you were then, until someone de-arched you. But it explains so much,” Dean is getting excited. “You pulled me out of hell! You pulled Sam out of Lucifer’s cage!”

“Not well,” Cas interrupts

“Yea, but you said it was impossible, that it was more mojo than anyone could muster, expect an archangel right, and it didn’t work perfectly because you were powered down.”

“Dean,” Cas sighs, looking guiltily at Sam.

“And the way the other Angels treat you. They want to follow you. No matter how badly you screw up, they're just drawn to you. You're totally an archangel man,” Dean’s voice is full of urgency.

“Dean, I fought in the war against Lucifer. I remember it. And I have never had a conversation with god, he was gone from heaven long before my time,” Cas insists.

“Is that really what happened Cas,” Dean argues, “or is that just what Naomi made you think happened?”

“That question is unanswerable,” Cas replies angrily.

“You should ask Laylah,” you chime in.

“Who?” Dean asks.

“Oldest angel in heaven,” you respond. “Angel of conception and delivery. Midwife to all the other angels, delivered each and every one of them. Only Angel whose always a woman.” 

“Laylah... is very secluded,” Castiel says. “It is nearly impossible to see her. She keeps her own guard.”

“Well, how long has it been since anyone tried to get in touch? Maybe she’s more accessible after all the turmoil that heaven’s gone through in the last 10 years. I mean, I can’t imagine anyone up there is still a threat to her.”

Cas’s eyes go wide and he whooshes out without another word. 

“So what happens if he is an archangel?” Sam asks.

Nobody answers. 

You sigh, “Dollars to donuts, one of those encrypted texts on the Rabbi’s computer is The Fall of Quafkiel.”

“We should get this back to the bunker,” Sam says.

Suddenly the glass window of the hotel room is blown in and you are all under attack.

Dean jumps toward the intruders and starts slashing. Sam jumps toward you, putting his large body between you and the invaders. There is glass all over the room. There is glass in the air. Everything sparkles and stinks of sulfur. 

Sam shoves you into the bathroom and closes the door. There is a lot of thumping. There are screams. The door splinters, and the bright line of a machete glints down the middle. You start praying. You don’t know what else to do. You say _Shema,_ and then start on _Kaddish,_ and when you forget the words you just start reciting the Hebrew alphabet. You grab the top of the toilet seat and hold it like a baseball bat.

The doorknob breaks and, a man in a suit, a demon, bursts into the room and charges at you. You swing the toilet lid without missing a beat. It breaks across his head, snapping his head sharply to the left. He stops for a moment and you think you might have achieved something, but then he snaps his head back into place with a serious crack, shaking off porcelain dust. You swing at him again. You should never have stopped swinging at him. That was the very first lesson you learn in self-defense class. You don’t take turns with an attacker. It’s always your turn. 

He takes a step back from your second swing, and ducks your third. The demon steps closer reaches through your arms to grab your shoulder twisting it in a way that forces you to drop the lid. Then he uses the leverage to flip you around and slam you against the bathroom wall. You push away from the wall with your free hand and try to kick behind you. You haven’t made it this far to give up now. You’re going to fight with everything you’ve got. You stomp on a foot and then manage to kick the side of knee. The demon gives a slight “ugh” and you try and kick the exact same spot again.

“I hear you know something worth knowing,” the demon says, sliding easily out of your kick line, then you are frozen locked in place. Against the wall, while the demon fills the room with stink and a horrible hissing sound. You can see black smoke in your peripheral vision. You know what that means. You wish you knew the Latin exorcism, or any exorcism, there has to be some Hebrew version. Something the rabbi would use. All you can think of is an Issac Bashevis Singer story where the demon is held trapped in a circle of chalk. 

“Is it possible?” you wonder “When would the boys have had the time?” 

There is smoke all around you. You picture the devils trap, and on impulse try and dive for the tub. You don’t get very far, maybe six inches away from where you were, but it seems to be enough, because the smoke seems to run up against a wall just shy of your nose. 

You hear a war cry and the sound of sparks. The force holing you to the wall lets go.

Sam is standing over you with a knife looking wary. You try to stay still you don’t need to frighten him into doing something stupid. He pulls out a flask and pops the cork with his teeth, then splashes you with holy water. You blink, but don’t start sizzling. 

He inhales and visibly relaxes. 

“I don’t know when or how you did it,” you say pointing at the chalk drawings on the ceiling, “but thank you.”

Sam looks up surprised. “We didn’t do that. Dean! Come and look at this.” 

Dean pushes into the room and follows Sam’s eye-line toward the ceiling. “Huh,” he says, “I’ve never seen a Devil’s trap like that. Did it work?”

“She’s not possessed.” 

“If you guys didn’t put it up there then who did?” 

“Well it’s the Rabbi’s room,” Dean says with a shrug. “My guess would be that she put it up there.” He pulls out his cell phone and takes a picture. “We should learn how to do that one. It looks fast.”

You aren’t ready to imagine that Issac Bashevis Singer lived a secret life as a hunter.

“Do you recognize it,” Sam asks, because as soon as you decide you don’t want to talk about something, Sam Winchester asks you about it.

“Issac Bashevis Singer. My grandpa used to read his stories to me. That,” you point to the ceiling, “is from a kids’ story called _The Fearsome Inn._ If the story is right, you need chalk that’s been blessed by a Rabbi to give it power.” And now, one of the most innocent things in your childhood has been ruined. “This is not as much fun as it looks like on TV.”

You all hustle to the Impala. You huddle in the back. Dean whips out his cell phone. 

“Crowley,” Dean growls, “Just ran into a couple of your guys. Seems they were after a Rabbi that was bringing us some interesting information. If there’s anyone else in your batting cage, you should call them back. You’re too late.”

“Its like Willie, Nikki, and Georgie before World War I,” you mutter. Sam glances up and catches your eyes in the rear view mirror. “Everyone’s too incestuous at the top and too violent on the ground level.” You cast down your eyes and go silent. There is a steady stream of growls coming out of Dean’s phone.

Dean makes a yakking mouth with his hand. Sam nods agreement, then shrugs. The boys have some kind of plan. It’s a joint decision they made with just gestures and eye rolls.

“Fine,” Dean says to the phone. “Someplace neutral. Tonight. Better if its got beer.” He closes the phone and puts it away. “Now we’ll see what Crowley knows.”

“You going to need back up?” Sam asks.

“For this?” Dean replies. “No, we’ve got what he’s after.” Dean kind of nods back at you as he says this, which is uncomfortable. “Dude wants to convince me she’s the problem.”

“What if he tries to hold you for leverage,” Sam asks. “Force an, uh, exchange.” You wonder if the word he swallowed was “hostage” or “prisoner”. 

Dean looks back at you. It’s a measuring look. There are a series of calculations happening in your head too. Neither of the Winchesters would want to hand an innocent to Crowley. But then again they’ve certainly done worse to protect each other. And you aren’t really the one with the answers they need are you? You aren’t the Rabbi who knows about magic, and restoring Castiel’s memory, and whatever is encrypted on that laptop. 

“I’ll have to try not to get caught won’t I,” Dean says to Sam. “You work on getting that computer stuff solved. If anything does go wrong, having Cas as a full archangel is probably our best bet.”

Sam nods in agreement.

You pull into the garage at the bunker. You unload. Dean and Sam have a hushed conversation while you linger near Dorothy’s motorcycle. 

You feel out of place. Truly out of place. There is no doubt to cling to. There is no task to hide behind. There is no anger holding you up. You are a stranger in a strange land. You are totally dependent on the kindness of people you’ve been picking fights with for the last two days.


	8. Shower Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can we worry about how I am using you selfishly to cope with this totally impossible situation after the sex please? I promise I will still respect you in the morning.”

Suddenly Sam is next to you with blanket. You didn’t even realize you were shivering until he puts it over your shoulders. You also realize you are bleeding, there are small glass cuts all over your arms. Probably all over your face too. He gently guides you to a locker room on the side of the garage. There is a long counter against a mirror with several neatly arranged medical supplies. It looks like a room the Winchester’s might use a lot. 

You are staring at the two piles of towels. Its not like one has a "D" over it, and one has an "S", but it’s still somehow clear that one pile belongs to Dean and one pile belongs to Sam. You guess the one with Darth Vader on top is Dean's and the one with the Stanford hand towel hanging over it is Sam’s pile. 

Sam positions you in front of the counter, and impulsively you hop onto it. Like you’re a kid, feet kicking the air. He’s still taller than you. You look up at him and blink. 

“I think you might be in a little bit of shock,” he says.

“Isn’t that life-threatening?” 

“Not clinical shock, just regular old, _oh god, this can’t be happening, did I really just fight a demon,_ shock.” 

“Oh. Yea. That’s totally possible.”

He holds up a bag of cotton balls and something in a brown bottle that’s probably Hydrogen peroxide.

“I’d like to clean out your cuts. Make sure nothing gets infected.” 

“Okay.” 

He gives you a soft smile. You didn’t actually think of Sam as the caretaker type. You’re 99% sure that’s Dean’s fetish. He starts methodically swabbing out the small cuts, getting glass out of everywhere. You realize your clothes are glittering.

“We’ll have to cut the shirt off,” you say, “I can’t pull this over my head.” 

When you glance back up at Sam his eyes are slightly dilated. You hold his gaze and it’s the longest moment of uninterrupted eye contact you’ve had with him. Maybe this is less about care-taking than control. If there was one thing that Sam had always consistently longed for, it was control. The fandom was pretty sure he was the secret Dom. You had been pretty sure of that, too. But it’s different here. With him in front of you. 

He pulls out a pair of bent EMT scissors from a drawer in the counter. 

“I prayed,” you blurt, as he starts cutting up your sleeve. “I didn’t expect to.”

“Because you’re an atheist?” He’s lightly amused, and moving to cut your other sleeve in half. “Foxholes. They’ll get you every time.”

He centers himself between your legs. The next thing to do is cut your shirt right down the middle and he’s hesitating. 

“Are you worried about buying me dinner first or something? I think yesterday’s burrito totally counts.”

Sam relaxes slightly. “I’m going to start at the collar and work down,” he says it blandly. Like it isn’t an incredibly sexy thing to say. He has to know better, right? He has to have some idea of what he is doing to you.

“Promises, promises. I bet you say that to all the girls.” You toss of your hair, flippantly. A glittering flutter of glass shakes off.

Sam rewards you with a small smile as he starts to cut down the shirt. “We don’t actually bring girls to the bunker. I think the last one here was Charlie. And she wasn’t, um, ah”

“A love interest?” 

Sam blushes. Oh. My. God. Sam blushed. 

“Well that’s ridiculous. This place totally has game. I’m sure all the girls want to hang out in your art deco swank, apocalypse safe house. I’m sold.”

He smiles, but it still looks at what he's cutting. “I can see the personal ad already. Unemployed college dropout seeking woman for relationship.” 

“Relationships only? No casual encounters?” 

He glances at you but ignores your words.

“Must be comfortable with erratic traveling schedule,” he continues, “constant bad food, regular injuries, and the unending stream of inappropriate comments from my lecherous older brother.” 

You giggle. “I see how you cleverly left out the demons, angels, and monsters.” 

“That’s definitely, like, second date material.” 

“You’re covered in glass, too, you know.” You reach up to brush a shard out of his hair. His eyes meet yours while your hand is at his temple and, suddenly, there's a kiss. Warm and soft and real. You don’t quite know if you pulled him in with your hand in his hair, or if he started it by leaning into you. No. You know. You started it, even if he was leaning in to you. You made contact. He holds very still, as you taste his mouth, one lip at a time. He doesn’t fight you he just doesn’t participate either.

You pull back and look into his eyes. There is a hunger. You think. But it’s kept well in check.

”What was that?” he asks. The question is as bland as it can be. All emotions removed.

“A kiss. You’ve heard of those right? Sometimes when people like each other they smoosh their mouths together.” You reach out and touch his chest. God, you are a Becky. “Sometimes people do more.”

“More?” He’s still stone faced.

“Foxholes, right?” It’s going to hurt like hell if he rejects you, but you are a big girl. You’ll deal. 

Sam snorts. You can see laughter trying to work its way out of his face. You surprise him with another kiss. He doesn’t hold still this time. His mouth starts to work against yours and his hands grip your thighs. 

Sam pulls back after a moment and looks at you with a concern. “Are you sure?” 

“Can we worry about how I am using you selfishly, to cope with this totally impossible situation, after the sex please? I promise I will still respect you in the morning.”

He chuckles. A low warm sound. “Hold still.” He peels your shirt off slowly. Looking you over he furrows his brow. “You’re going to need a shower. We both are. Can you get your jeans off or do I need to cut them too?” He holds scissors up and gives you a slight leer, one eyebrow raised. Damned giant knew what he was doing the whole time. You feel yourself gaining a new respect for his poker face.

“If they weren’t the only pants I had, I would tell you to cut them,” you say with a sigh, and his mouth twists in a smirk. “But I think I ought to save them.”

“Okay,” he says as he takes off his flannel, it has snaps. Snaps are brilliant. His undershirt is not heavily layered with glass, so he pulls it over his head. Then the jeans. “Let’s go shower.” He’s in nothing but his boxer briefs. The man has some serious thighs.

You feel a quivering in your loins as he reaches out to help you off the counter. You wiggle out of your jeans. Holding Sam’s hand, you follow him to the a bank of showers on the other side of the locker room. 

You are full of nervous excitement, like a teenager away from home for the first time. Sam lets go of your hand and strips down first. He is well hung. Proportionate with the rest of his enormous body. You let out a little breath looking at him, something between a sigh and a whimper. 

He smiles at you and takes your face in his hands. He gives you a long soft kiss, then he walks ahead of you and turns on the shower. You realize this is your chance to change your mind. He’s interested and willing, but he’s giving you the chance to walk the other way without having to explain anything. It's really thoughtful, and it just makes you want to fuck him more.

You get naked and join Sam in the shower. He shimmers with the water. The muscles of his thighs are as hard and defined as the muscles on his chest. His hair is wet and he’s rinsing suds out. God he’s beautiful. He's so out of your league.

“Can you, um, help me wash my back?” you ask, not knowing where to start. 

“Sure,” he says with a half smile. 

His fingers are light as he strokes your back. Just his big hands covered in soap. You shiver as your spine wakes up. 

“Come here,” he says puling you back toward the water. And you let him. He positions you in front of him, under the shower head, and then tilts your head back so the water starts running through it. You feel small and protected next to him. He fills his hands with soap and starts to lather it through your hair. He doesn’t have to be behind you to see the top of your head. When his hands are fully buried in your hair, you reach out and wrap you fingers around his cock.

His breath catches slightly. You put your other hand around his balls. He’s only half hard but that works better right now. He massages your head, and you massage his cock and balls. 

He tilts your head back again and the hot water starts rinsing your hair out. You pop a shoulder backwards so that a stream of hot water runs down your arm and onto his groin. He moans a little and rolls his own shoulders back, in an involuntary stretch. You lean forward and kiss his chest, letting your mouth walk to his nipple. 

He wraps his arms around you, one across your back and one at the back of your head. You kiss and bite slightly at his nipple trying to follow his sounds. You kiss toward the other side and swirls your tongue around the other nipple. He grunts a little as you suck on it and you feel him starting to really stiffen in your hands. 

You take the lead and using his cock as a guide, turn the pair of you around so that he’s against the wall under the shower head. You kneel down getting under the shower spray and take his cock into your mouth. You had hoped he was still soft enough to mostly fit in your mouth, but being pushed around was apparently enough to put him over the top and he’s throbbing hard. The best you can do is confuse his senses. The heat and steam help.

You lick up and down his shaft, making sure to kiss or suck the underside of the head every time you get back to the tip. He puts his hands on your head. You pull back a little and look up at him. 

“This one,” you say, touching his left hand, “needs to cup you balls.” He nods and lets you move his hand. “This one,” you say, toughing his right hand, “needs to grab my hair.” He grunts agreement, and his cock twitches as he laces his fingers through your hair. “I want your first orgasm in my mouth,” you say.

“My first?” he repeats. 

“I’m planning at least three for myself, I figure you should get the same,” you respond.

He smiles. “Okay.”

You wrap both your hands around his shaft and take the head into your mouth. You concentrate your tongue on the area just below and under the head. Creating a rhythm of short up and down that is copied by your hands.

Sam lets out a long groan and you feel him start to guide you. You let him take over the rhythm. You don’t know how long it takes. You are in the zone. The heat from the shower. The smell of his musk. The nodding of your head, and the increased grunting above you. 

At some point you start rolling your hands in opposite directions. Sam moans loudly, and his thighs stiffen beside you. You can feel them pressing into your shoulders. His left hand drops his balls and he puts both hands into your hair pulling you closer. You keep twisting his shaft as he bounces you up and down on the head of his penis. Your swallows are getting deeper as he pulls at you, but you stay relaxed and let that happen. No more tongue tricks or sucking now, just the soft open O of your mouth sliding slightly farther down his shaft each time he moves your head.

He comes with a shudder, folding in half over you. You squeeze your fingers individually on his shaft, like playing a piano, and that’s when you are rewarded with real sounds of pleasure. He pants, and moans, stretches back out, and calls your name, and you keep it going. He even tries to push you off gently and you fight to stay at his crotch. Until he basically melts. You work him until he’s soft and shivering despite the heat of the shower. Only then do you let go. You stand up with a smug smile proud of your accomplishment.

He reaches down and lifts you up with a roar. You wrap your legs and arms around him with laugh. He growls and spins so that you are pressed up against the wall. Pinned between his hard chest and the tile. 

“That was amazing,” he says. He cups your ass, squeezing greedily, and kisses you hard. “What do you have planned for your first orgasm?” he asks nibbling at your neck.

You smile “I was hoping you’d go down on me. Maybe in a bed.”

“I do have a bed,” he says. Lifting one hand up to tease your breasts. “I’ve got ideas my own, too.”

“Wanna share?” you ask.

He looks at you wickedly. “Not yet,” he says with a lop-sided smile. He hikes you farther up the wall and takes one of your breasts into his mouth. He kisses and sucks and nips at your nipple the way you teased him earlier. Then he kisses across you chest to the other side. You make sounds. You close your eyes. You enjoy him working at your chest until its just too much. 

“Bed. Now. Please,” you stammer. 

He looks up at you and smiles. “I like that,” he says, “I’m going to wrestle a few more _‘pleases’_ out of you, tonight.”

You look in his eyes. You can read him like a book. “I’m sure you will Sam Winchester. But I’m going to make you work for all of them.” You aren’t sure but you think you might feel his cock starting to twitch again.


	9. Sam Researches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t spend much time bragging about it, but I’m no slouch. I do a lot of research.”

Sam reaches up and turns off the shower head. He walks you out of the shower still wrapped around his torso. You giggle when he grabs a towel while still holding you up with one arm.

“You can put me down.” 

“That’s not a very nice way to ask for something,” 

You can’t believe that he wants a _‘please’_ to put you down. Isn’t that doing him a favor? 

“Fine. Carry me then.”

He smiles at you and then starts walking toward his room. You basically have to cross the entire bunker and you are both naked and wet. You hope nervously that Dean is still out. But as Sam walks into the kitchen Dean's there, making a sandwich. 

Sam takes a step back and pauses just outside the doorway.

“I hope you had a nice shower,” Dean says tauntingly. You bury your face in Sam’s shoulder while Dean keeps talking. “So Crowley, says that he’s known Cas was an archangel for years. At least since they raised the Leviathans. But he really doesn’t want Cas powered back up, was all, _we won’t know who he is with all those thoughts and memories back,_ yadda, yadda, doom and gloom.”

“Dean,” Sam calls out, interrupting his brother. “Close your eyes for a minute.”

“What?” Dean asks. “Why the hell would I do that?”

You give Sam a terrified look and he kisses the end of your nose. “You are really cute when you blush,” he whispers, and then strides into the room while you yelp and press against him. 

“Achhchh,” Dean says embarrassed, “Okay, alright, I’m closing my eyes. I guess Crowley can wait.” You’re through the room before he’s finished speaking.

The door to Sam’s room is ajar. He kicks it all the way open, drops you onto the bed, and steps back to look at you. “You blush all over,” he says with appreciation, closing the door to the room.

He leaves you on the bed and walks to the closet where he gets out a med kit. Most of your cuts have closed up already, but Sam gives you a thorough examination. He stands you up in front of him, and then has you hold out your arms while he sits in a rolling chair and slides around you. He’s even got a pair of reading/magnifying glasses he breaks out that are the cutest thing ever. He dabs a few spots with Neosporin and puts Band-Aids on your biggest cuts. Its all very sweet and makes you feel cared for and safe.

When he’s determined that you are mended, he puts the kit away. He leaves on his glasses. 

When he sits, he’s basically eye level with you. He rolls the chair toward you and spreads his legs on either side of you. You find yourself breathing fast. He wraps his left arm around your waist and kisses you. Its an in-between kiss, not as greedy as he was right after his orgasm, or as soft as before you committed to this adventure.

“I believe in research,” he tells you as his right hand starts to lightly stroke the side of your body from your knees to your ribs. 

“Un-huh,” you agree. Not able to say much else.

“So,” he continues, “I’m going to ask you some questions, and you are going to tell me what you like.”

“Un-huh,” you agree again. Feeling suddenly very small. 

“When I go down on you,” he asks, “would you like me to start by kissing here?” He traces your treasure trail with his finger. Slowly circling your belly button and then lightly heading downward.

“Yes,” you breath.

“What about here?” He strokes lightly over your hip bones. “Are these sensitive places for you?”

“Yes.” You are getting a bit husky.

Sam raises an eyebrow at you and smirks. He reaches his hands down to your knees and strokes his long fingers along your inner thigh. “When I work here,” he asks, sounding very serious, stroking up one side and then the other, not quite reaching your crotch but coming temptingly close “do you like all soft touches or should I bite and squeeze a little?”

You shudder slightly. “I like a little biting and squeezing, but lets not open any new wounds.”

“Not tonight at least, right?” Sam gives you a wicked smile.

You’re eyes go a little wide despite yourself. 

“There’s that blush.” He seems a little smug. You purse your lips and give him the stink eye.

He swallows a laugh. He tickles his fingers over the top of your public mound and over the outer lips of the your vulva. “What about here? What's the policy on teeth, here?

“That depends on how skilled you are.” 

“I don’t brag, but I’m no slouch. I've done my research.”

“Why don’t you show me.” 

You lean in for a kiss. His left arm wraps tighter around your middle and his right hand strokes over your thighs and pussy. 

The kiss is warm and soft at first. Sam has large lips, especially compared to yours. He can take your whole mouth in his. You’ve been kissing wide. Letting yourself relax to any exploring his tongue wanted, but this time you hold your mouth somewhat closed. Resistant. 

He get it quickly, and starts to demonstrate his skills. He pets and circles your lips with his tongue, he scrapes ever so lightly with his teeth. He is good. His fingers are stroking back and forth over you pussy now, eager, but still only the lightest of touches. You moan a little, and your lips open just a hair. His tongue finds the crack of your lips and starts to work it. You resist, just a little, and then give just a little despite yourself. This seems to drive him wild. The fingers on his right hand squeeze into your hip, while the fingers on his left hand run on the outer edges of your vulva. His tongue seems determined to push its way into your mouth.

You put your hands in his hair and squeeze, you don’t let him into your mouth, but you don’t let him pull back either. His fingers are still circling your pussy and its driving you crazy. You can feel your juices starting to drip. Sam must feel it too, because he moves his fingers to start spreading you apart, to trace your inner lips and circle your clit. You moan and that opens your mouth to him at last. 

The kiss goes on, and you feel a little dizzy. He seems satisfied, though.

“So what’s your decision?” he asks “Teeth or no teeth.”

“I’m gonna trust you to make the call.” 

His mouth twitches slightly. Putting him in charge must turn him on. 

“What about a good fingering?” he asks sliding a finger inside you. You are so fucking slick. You grunt with pleasure. “Would you like that while I’m going down on you?”he asks

“God, yes.” You are leaning into his chest now, using him to hold you up. 

He slips another finger inside of you, and you groan.

He grunts himself, then. He pulls his fingers slowly out and starts circling the head of your clit again.

“Lying on the bed, with my mouth between you legs, is that what you want?” 

“Yes.” You are so hot from all the teasing. You just want his mouth on you. You want your orgasm.

“Are you ready to ask for it, nicely?” He’s kissing at your ear. Smug and playful as he circles his fingers over your clit. 

You moan and bring your mouth to his ear, too. You kiss the edge of it and feel him stiffen. He’s hard again, he loves teasing you. You can see his cock throbbing. 

You work at his ear until he finally lets out a little grunt of pleasure. It's exactly what you've been waiting for. “Please,” you whisper. “Please. Please go down on me. I need your mouth. I need you to make me come. Please.”

He picks you up and moves you to the bed, its abrupt and you aren’t totally ready for it, but he’s strong and he gets it done. The whoosh makes you giggle. He looks you over one more time and smiles. “I’m gonna enjoy this,” he says as he puts his mouth on your belly button and begins to flick his tongue down your treasure trail.

Sam is true to his _research._ He kisses down your treasure trail with his hands around your hips. Then he kisses over your hips with his hand squeezing and running over your thighs. Then he kisses and nips up your thighs while one hand swirls over your clit. You aren’t keeping track of the noises you make anymore. 

Then his mouth is finally on you. Warm and wet against your core. You shudder. He’s making designs with his tongue and whenever you moan he repeats the shape. Before you know it you are squeezing his head with your thighs and grasping at his hair. 

He keeps working you. Right before you start to plateau, he slips two fingers inside you and starts to scissor them slightly. You are mumbling his name, _Sam, Sam, Sam,_ over and over. Then you are begging him. _Please. Yes, Please, keep going. I’m so close. Please._

He’s thrusting his fingers in and out now, and you are riding the waves. Grasping at the sheets tensing but not quite able to catch your orgasm. Then he moans, or hums, right into your center. That’s what takes it over the edge. Your hips buck, and your spine curls up and then bends backward. You yell. You yelp. You feel your clit and vagina throb and squeeze against his fingers. He keeps lapping and humming until you thrash back down again. 

“Fuck” you say, collapsing as the last waves wash over you. You look down at Sam whose panting with his face mashed into your thigh. His eyes are closed and he’s still got one hand inside you. His shoulder is bouncing and it's a total give away that he's tugging hard.


	10. Sex with Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s been way too long,” he says. And you giggle. You can’t help yourself. 
> 
> “I’m sure you could get a lot more girls if you wanted to.”
> 
> He waives you off. “You can’t get sex like that with strangers.”
> 
> “You’ve known me for, like, 48 hours.”

Seeing Sam so turned on floods you with confidence. He liked it so much he had to take care of himself. He bites at your thigh and you dig a hand into his hair.

“Do it, Sammy,” you say. “Cum because you liked going down on me so much. I’ll get you hard again.” You squeeze you vagina against his fingers. Pulsing downward around his hand. He moans, increasing the pace of his stroke. 

“I’m so fucking wet,” you say. “You feel how swollen I am. You did that. You brilliant man you. You made me beg. I’m going to get you hard again and you’re gonna just slide your enormous cock right in there.” You squeeze his finger with your vagina again. Sam is panting into your thighs, into your crotch, and its so fucking hot.

He puts his hand around your hips and squeezes them, with a determined look in his eyes. His palms are big enough to go all the way around. He digs his fingers. He bites at your thigh, still panting. You wouldn't be surprised if there's a mark tomorrow. When he looks up and meets your eyes, there is a wild, thirsty expression on his face.

“Roll over,” he orders. “On your hands and knees.”

You give him a little smirk, and follow his directions. He climbs up onto the bed behind you. It creaks with his weight. He looms over you a bit, breathing heavily onto your neck. You can feel the heat of his body floating above your back. The ropy ligaments of his arms flexing on either side of shoulders. Those beautiful arms. You press your mouth against a bicep, just cause its close. He kisses the space between your shoulder blades. You arch and moan, little electrical tingles dancing down your spine. 

And when the tip of his cock starts rubbing against your cunt, you let out an involuntary groan. He snorts.

“You know what to say.”

“Please,” you breathe, push back and up toward his groin, letting your shoulders drop into the sheets. 

“That’s right.” He runs a hand up your spine, from tail bone to the nape of your neck. He wraps his hand into your hair and you can feel the precarious balance. His hand slides around your head and into the bed right next to you. The weight of it makes a dent that tilts your shoulders, but he's not pushing you down. He's using his other hand to guide his cock. You can barely see him biting his lip over your shoulder as he starts slowly slipping into you. It is enormous. You are making gurgling whimpers as he pushes it deeper. 

“You think you can do this?” he teases. “You think you can take my cock? That you are wet and slick enough for it to just slide right in? Because, I’m only half way right now.”

You groan. You aren’t actually sure if you can take all of him anymore. He’s so big. But its so good. You are stretched and pulled in ways you haven't been before. He stays still longer than you want. It takes more brain power than it should for you to realize that despite the teasing tone, he’s actually waiting for an answer.

"You don't scare me. I fought a demon today, remember?" You flip your head and nibble at the wrist pressed into the bed next to you. "I'm dangerous. "

"That you are."

Sam starts a slow stroke, pulling slightly out and pushing in, back to that half-way mark. You are saturated with sensation. It seems nearly impossible to think. He keeps moving and you start to shiver. You know there are sounds filling the room, but it seems odd that they are all coming from you. He must be hitting your g-spot because all you want to do is bear down and you think if he keeps this up you will come again.

“I like it when you squeeze like that,” Sam says. As you writhe dumbly on the sheet beneath him. 

“Please,” you gasp at last. “More.”

Sam exhales. He eases deeper into you and it feels like your eyes are going to roll out of your head. 

“Keep talking to me,” he encourages, touching his lips to that space right behind your ear. “Tell me what’s good.”

“It’s. All. Good,” you stammer out between moans and grunts.

“God, you are tight,” Sam says, his elbows on the bed and his hand finding their way back into your hair. “Are you squeezing like that on purpose? All those little pulses?”

You shake your head no.

“So hot,” he says, still pushing in slowly. You are grinding back and pushing with your whole upper body against his weight to get your hips closer him. He moans, pressing his forehead against the back of your skull. “You _are_ going to take me all the way in aren’t you?”

And you are. But there isn’t room for words around the other sounds coming out of your throat. You can feel the head of his cock brushing against your cervix. 

He gives you a couple of long strokes and it’s almost too intense. His weight is starting to flatten you out. It's not bad, just overpowering. His chest against your back, his arms against your arms, his hand in your hair, his lips near your temple, his heavy musk wrapping around you like a blanket. And he's still moving so damned slow. It's wonderful, but also maddening. What you want is for him to sit up and drive that huge beautiful cock into you. You need more friction to work with. There is a picture in your head of Sam pressing your shoulders down with all his weight and using that leverage to buck wildly. Can you ask for that? Would he judge you? 

“Please. Please, let me rollover, I need to see your face.”

Sam grunts agreement. He pulls out and you flip yourself over. He’s sitting up on his knees and you dive at him, putting your arms around his neck and kissing him hard. He wraps his arms around you, too. Palm splayed against your back. The kiss he resists though. Slightly. Holding his mouth firm in a tight lipped smile. You give a desperate half laugh, and press your palms against his temples, fingers in his hair. It's your turn to push through the resistance of his lips and plunder his mouth. You tug and pull, and drag your teeth against his bottom lip lightly. He uses one hand to hold you up and the other to help you get your knees over his legs so that you are straddling him.

You pull back breathless, kissing at his face but able to talk. "If I asked you to fuck me like a jackhammer busting up concrete would you think less of me?" The barest bit of laughter escapes his lips. You take the opportunity to push your tongue in between his teeth and he moans into your aggression. You grind down and he makes a face that's almost a wince.

He leans forward, and in a moment he’s lying on top of you, your legs wrapped around his back. He pulls back enough to guide his cock to the mouth of your cunt, and then goes back to kissing you wildly as he pushes in. You arch and grunt and shiver, as he puts his weight onto his elbows and picks up the pace. You grab his wrists and let your eyes roll back into your head. Friction. Exactly where you need it. It's pulling you along. Tugging you forward as your legs tense and your breath catches.

“God, I’m going to cum,” you say. Then you do. Chest rising up, your whole body shivering around that pulse point. You are throbbing around him, grabbing at his hair and back. His nostrils are flaring and he’s pushing against you, holding himself still, and using his weight to keep you from wiggling away. 

As soon as the orgasm subsides, he gives you a gentling smile. He seems really proud of himself. You growl a little in response. “Do it again,” you say. “Hold me down so I can't get away.”

Sam doesn’t say anything but his jaw quivers and you can see his pupils dilate. 

“What’s the magic word?” he asks, pretending to be calm, but you can hear the little catch in his voice.

“Please," you lick your lips for effect. "Please, hold me down. Please ride me with that magnificent cock of yours and make me thrash and hold me down so I can’t get away. Please.”

Sam's nostrils flare. He takes one of your hands in each of his and pins them above your head. It’s not a lot of movement, nothing fancy. He just puts his weight on his hands and you are trapped. He starts to move again, slowly. And you start to snake underneath him in response. 

You can see his eyes flutter shut. He’s not really focusing on anything, instead he’s floating in some in-between space. You buck your hips and that wakes him up some. You pull one hand out of his grip. And waive it in front of him. “That the best you can do?” you taunt as he grabs at your hand again.

“It’s hardly a fair fight,” he says.

“It’s not supposed to be,” you respond, and then you’ve got your other hand free and the opposite knee pulled up. With that extra leverage, you’ve almost got your hip turned enough to force him out of you. Sam responds by shifting his own knees and weight to press you back down. He grabs both of your hands in one fist and uses the other hand to roll your hip flat again. He looks at you concerned, but also intrigued, very interested. His mouth is slightly ajar and he licks his lips. 

Yahtzee. Sam Winchester the unexamined Dom. Ready to be coaxed out and wanting to play.

“I like hair pulling, too,” you say with a smile.

Sam chuckles a little and starts rocking back and forth, inside, and above you

“You are full of surprises,” he says. 

“You’re not,” you smirk. “I’ve had you pegged as a closeted Dom, for at least forty five minutes now, maybe longer.”

“Wow,” he deadpans, “that’s some really fine investigation,” he’s still pinning you with just one hand. He starts rolling your nipple between the fingers of his free hand.

“It was all that focus on please and thank you that tipped me off,” you moan.

“I don’t remember thank yous” he leans more heavily onto you, pushing your hands deeper into the bed. “Did we talk about that?”

“Didn’t we? I thought for sure we talked about how you were going to drive that massive cock into me while I thanked you, over and over.”

He grunts, and pushes into you heavily. You moan and arch up against him. “Thank you,” you exhale, and he sighs right back. 

“Thank you,” you repeat. And then he’s kissing you. “Thank you,” you mumble into his mouth, as he moves faster, more intently. “Thank you,” you say as he slides an arm underneath you. 

“You’re so small,” he mutters into your hair. “I just want to wrap you up.”

“I’m small” you agree, “but I’m tough, too.” You bite at his neck and scrape with your teeth. He moans as his eyes roll back and then he’s moving with abandon. “Thank you,” you say again, letting your own head fall back without a care left in the world.

Whenever he starts to ease up on that hard deep drive you badger him. You wiggle a hand free while he’s distracted with sensation, and make him catch it again. You drive your heels into the bed and use everything you have to lift him slightly, which forces him to catch the balance of his bulk. 

You keep making eye contact. He keeps reacting by kissing you. You give him looks that are alternately pleading, glaring, nervous, and smiling. You bite your lip and call his name. He looks at you with wonder. Orgasms make men do that. 

His breathing just gets faster and shallower with each move you make. 

“Tell me how much you want me,” he mummers at last. His body is humming. You can see the muscles quivering. 

You purse your lips wickedly. The brain is the biggest sex organ. Especially for nerdy guys. It flashes for you that Sam has always wanted to be accepted, just as he is.

“I want you Sam Winchester,” you say huskily. “I know you, and I want you. All of you. Everything about you. I want to give myself to you. I trust you. I know you’ll do right by me.”

You don’t know if its exactly what he was asking for but it seems to work. His fingers fist into the sheets and he looses himself in a series of quick deep thrusts. It makes you grunt as well. He yelps, bending backward toward the ceiling. A long moan rumbles up from inside him from the orgasm that he’s been holding back. You feel his cock pulsing and throbbing inside of you. 

You wiggle against him, and a new set of strained sounds pour out of his throat. He looks at you wide eyed and you smile innocently while squeezing him with your kegel superpowers. He gasps and squeezes you hands more tightly, but after a moment he can’t stand it any longer. He pulls out and falls onto the bed beside you, shuddering. 

You roll toward him. He’s on his back and its easy for you to tuck inside his arm, against his side. You reach down and cup his balls with one hand and his cock with the other. He yelps again. Then moans low and long as you gently ease him through the last pulses of his orgasm. Holding his cock gently as it twitches and starts to soften. 

Sam pulls you in with the arm you’re tucked into and throws the other across his eyes. He breathes like a runner coming off of a marathon.

“It’s been way too long,” he says. You giggle. You can’t help yourself. 

“I’m sure you could get a lot more girls if you wanted to.”

He waives you off. “You can’t get sex like that with strangers.”

“You’ve known me for, like, 48 hours.”

“It feels longer than that.” There is a warm rumble in his voice. It does feel like its been longer than two days. Sam sighs. “Maybe” he rolls his head down toward you and smiles naughtily, “it’s just that I like your books so much, now that I know that you wrote them I feel like I know you.” His eyes are twinkling. “You’re my celebrity crush.”

You guffaw. “I watch you on TV! And in my world I haven’t even finished writing those books. You’re the celebrity. I’m just, like, the most Mary-Sue, Mary-Sue ever.”


	11. The Most Mary-Sue, Mary-Sue Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Three orgasms, right?” You have a wicked grin. “I am a woman of my word.”
> 
> Sam breathes out heavily and his nostrils flare slightly.
> 
> “I think you’ve also only had two,” he says bringing his right thumb to press lightly on your clit.

“Mary Sue?” Sam asks. 

“The author’s avatar, when they write themselves into the story with their favorite characters, but make themselves better and more perfect than they are. So in this world I’m a rabbi that does holy magic for hunters and I write best selling novels on the side and I sleep with you even though I never get guys like you.” 

Sam sits up on his elbows and looks at you thoughtfully. After a pause that’s just long enough to worry you, he says “So, I’m your favorite character?”

“Oh my god!” you groan and try to hid your face, rolling onto your belly. 

“Hey, I can handle it.” He's enjoying your embarrassment. “I’ve been to a convention. I know all about Sam Girls.” He’s walking his fingers up your spine as he condescends to you.

“Screw you.” 

“Sure." He shrugs, and smiles mischievously. "If you're up for another round, I think I could get there, too.”

Then he’s kissing you and moving to roll you on top of him. You squeal a little at how easily he moves you around. Before you know it you are straddling him with your hands on his bare chest as he massages your hips and stares at you. 

“But now it’s your turn to do the work,” 

You squint at him. “You don’t think I was working you before?” 

He grins wickedly. “So you actually are a lawyer. Would you sue me if I said you’ve got gorgeous tits?” 

You pop your chest out proudly. “Absolutely not,” you hold them in your hands and jiggle them slightly. “Tits McGee, happy to meet you. This one is Nikki and this one is Nora.”

Sam blinks at you. “You named your breasts after characters in The Thin Man?” 

“Yep. Totally. Absolutely,” you say, with a lousy poker face. “I have called them that for years. Years.”

Sam raises an eyebrow at you. “You just made that up.” 

“Oxytocin high," you admit. "But it’s incredibly sexy that you got the reference.”

He laughs and the rumble rolls through your thighs and up into your groin, and then you're wet again. You want to kiss him. So you do. You run your hands through his hair, which is soft and fine. You stroke his cheeks and jaw line as well.

You wiggle down his body onto his groin. Sam’s actually got a decent semi, so you set yourself just above his pubic bone and stroke behind you, easing his cock up your back and along the curve of your buttocks, with soft fluttering strokes.

Sam lifts an eyebrow at you again. “Are you ready to go again?” he asks, for real this time.

“Three orgasms, right?” You have a wicked grin. “I am a woman of my word.”

Sam breathes out heavily and his nostrils flare slightly.

“I think you’ve also only had two,” he says bringing his right thumb to press lightly on your clit.

You sigh agreement. “But I bet I could grind another one out riding that magnificent cock of yours.” You stroke his length as you say it.

“Is that all I am to you? A giant dildo?”

“Not all. You seem pretty handy in a fight, too.” You lift up on one knee to position yourself above him. “And you aren’t bad to look at. And you get my nerdy jokes.” You glide back and forth, letting the head of his cock run against the slickness of your cunt. You know he must be really sensitive. His face twists in a way that you enjoy. “But right now, you are going to stay still and let me have my way with you, because you put me up here, and it’s my turn to do the work right?”

He curses slightly under his breath.

“Now, Sam, if you want more, you know what the magic word is.”

He glares at you, but it’s a good glare, full of hunger and need.

You smile. “Wanna see how long you can resist? I’m happy to go slow.” You press your hands down on his chest and glide and his face keeps twisting. He wraps his hand around your wrists and squeezes. Which makes you smile.

“Keep talking to me, Sam. Tell me what’s good. I love the sound of your voice.”

“Its good,” he grunts, and as a reward, you let yourself sink all the way down onto his cock, until its brushing the head of your cervix. You don’t go quickly. You move as brutally slow as you can. He’s perfectly primed. Two orgasms in a row without a full refractory period, he’s feeling everything and more. 

He pants with relief when you are all the way down. You count to three in your head and then start to pull up, still moving as slow as you can go. You pop him all the way out at the end and start gliding over the head of his penis again. He’s writhing underneath you now, and it’s delicious. 

“I am totally a Sam Girl. I have been since day one. I was a nerdy Jewish intellectual in Texas. Even in Austin that can make it tough to fit in. There were always kids at school ready to tell me I was going to hell.” 

You start a slow slide down, and Sam gasps. It’s heady to have someone so much bigger and stronger than you so desperate for your touch. He’s making this stuttered gasp, now and you don’t really think he’s hearing a thing you are saying.

You set your rhythm by humming Liz Phair’s Flower in your head. It’s got a steady, dirty, mumbling pulse and you try to talk a whole verse to get from the head of Sam’s cock to the point where your hips are grinding his.

_Every time I see your face, I think of things unpure unchaste, I want to fuck you like a dog, I’ll take you home and make you like it._

Then a verse of slow circles, grinding down. He pants and squeezes your wrists. You might end up with bruises.

 _Everything you ever wanted, everything you ever thought of, is everything I’ll do to you, I’ll fuck you and your minions too._

“What are you humming?” Sam asks

“Liz Phair,” you say with a smile. On impulse you chant the next line out loud while pulling off of him. 

“Your face reminds me of a flower. Kind of like you’re underwater, hair’s too long and in your eyes, your lips are a perfect suck me size.” You lean down and suck on his bottom lip, scraping lightly with your teeth. He lets go of one of your wrist and digs his hand into your hair. His kiss borders on vicious, pulling and biting at your mouth with need. You have to break the kiss to catch his cock again because of the size difference. He wraps his hands around your hips. 

_You act like you’re fourteen years old, everything you say is so, obnoxious, funny, true and mean, I want to be your blow job queen._

You think for a moment he’s going to start to drive you up and down faster, but he just lets his fingers curl and dig at your hips and ass without forcing your movements. Up and down you go, grinding against him when the spot is just right. 

_You’re probably shy and introspective, that’s not part of my objective, I just want your fresh young jimmy, cramming slamming ramming in me._

You’re moving faster now, even though you are trying to keep the pace steady. Sam makes the most wonderful sounds when you vary the rhythm. He slides his hand up to grab your breasts. You put your hands over his and urge him to knead the flesh. You moan and grind down on him again, squeezing as you do.

_Every time I see your face, I think of things unpure unchaste, I want to fuck you like a dog, I’ll take you home and make you like it._

Sam slides an arm around your waist and flips you onto your back. He’s still got a hand mashed against one of your breasts. He looks down at you panting. You smile and cock an eyebrow at him.

“Resistance is futile?”

He crashes his mouth down onto yours and starts thrusting hard enough to make the bed shake. You wrap your legs around him and hang on for dear life. This is going to take you over the edge, too.

“Everything you ever wanted, everything you ever thought of, is everything I’ll do to you, I’ll fuck you ‘til your dick is blue.” The words whisper through your brain as Sam slams through the last of his orgasm. Then he bites at your neck and keeps moving until you scream out his name. Thrashing underneath him as your own waves of pleasure pulse through you.

He looks down at you with a smug, self-satisfied expression. “Not bad for a dildo, eh?”

“I should never have underestimated you. Next time, you’ll have to spank me for my impertinence.”

His eyes dilate as you blink up at him innocently. You think he might be considering laying you across his lap right then.

“You are full of surprises,” he says after a monumental pause. 

“Not really,” you smile back. “I just want to make you happy.”

He cups your face in one of his giant hands and kisses you gently. He’s getting soft and slipping out of you. There probably isn’t another round in him. At least not yet. Not without water and a 20 minute nap. He rolls to the side and curves his body to yours. You wiggle in his arms, spooning into him. He wraps himself around you, and just like you suspect he’s breathing regular and shallow with sleep in a few moments.

You lay like that, thinking half formed thoughts, and you don’t remember when you fall asleep yourself.


	12. Fan Theory No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I feel like I should have known Dean was gay.”
> 
> “He’s not gay, he’s bi. The most invisible of all sexual orientations. We’ll watch some Torchwood while their gone. And if you think about it, you did know. I mean how surprised are you really?”

You wake up alone in Sam’s bed. The room still smells like sex. You roll and stretch. It’s lovely.

The smell of coffee tints the air and you can hear the shuffling, muffled sounds of other people. You hunt around the room for something to put on. Sam has a green flannel hanging on a chair. You snap it up and it hangs to your knees. You roll up the sleeves and find your socks. Your jeans are still down in the locker room. They are also probably stiff and gross. You don’t want to dig through Sam’s things, but actually you do. You totally want to rifle his drawers. And you need something else to wear. 

There’s a drawer with what looks like a pair of boxers briefs hanging out of it. You start there. Ideally you’d find a pair of running shorts. Something with an elastic waist. Shorts though don’t seem to exist in Sam’s dresser, so you grab a pair of grey boxer briefs. They’re like shorts when you wear them. You look down at your ensemble. It’s a good enough outfit to do laundry.

You head out with every intention of getting your jeans. Unfortunately they are on the other side of the kitchen and the war room, where Sam and Dean are currently having a whispered argument.

“Why are you acting weird?” Sam asks. “You’ve had a lot sketchier sex.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because I’m not invested. I don’t care about them and they don’t care about me. I know, for sure, exactly where I stand.”

“You think I don’t know where I stand, Dean? She doesn’t belong in our world. We are going to push her out of this existence.”

“So this is a one night stand and you’re good with that?”

Sam doesn’t respond. At least not quickly.

“Right. That’s what I thought,” Dean says. “You have a thing for broken birds, Sam. It’s going to break your heart and I’m going to have to clean it up.”

“Nice to know you’re concerned.” Sam’s voice drips with sarcasm.

You think about retreating back to the bedroom, at least for a while, but then Castiel appears beside you. 

“Talking with Laylah was quite confusing," he says, pulling everyone's attention to you. "She likes riddles. But I think you’re suppositions are at least partially correct. My memories of the first war with Lucifer are not accurate. I . . . don’t know what role I actually played.”

Cas looks so worried. Dean and Sam probably both know you were listening to them argue. You blush. You don’t know what to say to Cas. You don’t know what to say to the Winchesters, either.

Sam comes to your rescue. “The Rabbi’s computer finished decrypting last night. I printed out the paperwork if you want to see it. Maybe there's an answer in there.”

“Yes,” says Castiel.

The pile of papers Sam brings over are in Hebrew or Enochian. The rabbi could probably read that. Cas takes it and starts reading casually. He sits down at the war room table with his coat spread out behind him. “This is . . . not possible,” Cas mumbles.

“What’s the matter?” Dean asks.

Castiel ignores him. 

Dean glances at Sam and then takes a seat across the table from Cas. Who keeps saying things like “impossible” and “that can’t be right” as he reads.

Sam puts a hand on your upper back and guides you from the room toward the kitchen. He kisses the top of your head. “You want coffee?” he asks.

“Yes. Please.”

# # # 

Castiel reads the print-out three times. Sam brings Dean breakfast as he watches over the angel: coffee, toast, and scrambled eggs. The morning rolls by slowly. Everyone waiting for Cas.

Sam moves quietly through it all, taking care of any necessary chores. Your jeans get washed. 

Sam asks you if you can read the Hebrew and you laugh. You aren’t the Rabbi. Sam says that she has a partial English translation on her computer, and he offers to let you read it. You don’t want to. You should want to. You’re certain that the document has the key to you getting home. But now that Cas is pouring over it, going home feels inevitable. 

You’re relieved. 

You're sad. 

“Tell me something about yourself,” you say to Sam. Your both sitting on his bed, because there isn't a couch. The door is open, but you've got your shoes off and your feet in his lap.

He laughs and squeezes your toes. “You already seem to know everything about me.” 

“Tell me something boring. Something mundane that’s not worth putting in a novel or TV show.”

He flashes through a series of thinking expressions: lifts an eyebrow, squeezes his brow, twists his mouth, then shrugs. “I don’t know what to say.”

“What’s your favorite Disney movie? From when you were a kid?”

He smiles a wide easy smile. “Aladdin.” 

You look at Sam with his shaggy hair. You think about him unwrapping stolen Christmas presents. _One jump ahead of the breadline. One swing ahead of the sword. We steal, only what we can't afford._ Something in your heart chips off and floats away.

“Look, when the Rabbi get here, I hope to god that she realizes what a chance she has, but I’m 90% certain she won’t.” 

Sam squints at you. You pull close to him, leaning across him and pushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead.

“Ask her to help. She’s a scholar. Obviously she wants to help, or she wouldn't have tracked down Chuck and tried to get you the book." He's tilted his head and is looking at you incredulously. "She’s lost people. I don’t know how open she’ll be to loving someone whose always in danger. Then again she might be lonely and jealous and hungry, cause I would be. It might work out great. When you're on the road, she'd have a lot of time to write and research.” You gulp. “I think you deserve love. She going to be something like me. So there's a better than average chance that she's going to love you. Try okay?”

“No,” Sam says. His eyes look very green in this light. “I don’t want to talk anyone into this life. Either they know or they don’t.”

“She must know something," you say, climbing onto his lap, "because of Chuck and Rufus.” It seems like an empty response even as you say it. The way he looks at you makes it seem emptier. You've basically just told him you love him, and now you are both pretending that you didn't say it. You smooth back his hair, even though it wasn't out of place. 

There is a keening sound from the living room. A low pitch wail of sorrow. It's what you've been waiting for. Why you are both still dressed and the door is open.

You and Sam follow the sound to see Castiel holding the manuscript binder to his chest with tears streaming down his face, rocking back and forth in his chair. Dean is standing next to him and patting him on the back, his face full of panic. He doesn’t know what to do. 

“Cas, it will be alright. Whatever it is, it will be alright.” 

Cas turns in his seat and presses his face into Dean's shirt, he hiccups and gasps between his tears one arm clutching at Dean's middle and the other still holding the binder tightly. Dean tentatively returns the hug. He does more back patting. He glances at you and Sam. The look is a plea for help. Sam shrugs, also lost. 

Cas is hiccuping into Dean belly, making snotty sounds, and Dean is blushing like mad. 

“Cas,” Dean says after a moment, “I don’t know what you don’t tell me. I can’t read Hebrew. You are gong to have to use your words.”

Cas pulls back and stares at him. Then, in a blur, Cas has Dean pressed against the wall, with his arm square against Dean's collarbones and Dean’s flannel fisted in his hand. The binder drops to the floor with a crash that scatters all its pages. Sam takes a step toward them but you put out a hand to hold him back. You’ve seen almost this exact moment play out, but with a bit of gender swapping. 

"You," Cas growls. "He explained you, but I didn't understand. He told me and I didn't understand. Love is made of choices, if you can't choose, then no matter what the sacrifice is, it is not really love. I understood duty and obligation, Angels understand that, but to know love you had to be able to choose someone else's happiness. To choose it above my duty, above my own happiness, above my own life, and if it was not a freely given choice, then it wasn't love. I wanted to understand. I asked for it, of everything I could have asked for that's what I wanted. He warned me. He gave me every warning, and I didn't care because I couldn't understand them, Dean. He explained about you and it made no sense, because love makes no sense." Cas stares intensely into Dean's eyes. Dean blinked, and Cas's features fell. Anger draining away and replaced with a lost and lonely tilt around his eyes. "There is so much inside me. But it doesn't fit, Dean. How do you make it fit?" 

Dean licks his lips, and gulps. "Is that a come-on, Cas? Cause I can't quite tell if you are having a mental breakdown or making a pass at me, or both, I guess." He smiles and laughs awkwardly as he says it.

There is another long moment of staring, and then Cas is kissing Dean, who clutches the wall in surprise. Sam’s eyebrows hit the roof. You smile indulgently. About damned time. Sam looks down at you, then back at Dean and Cas, then down at you again.

“Fan theory?” he asks. "Wasn't there a sex change first?"

“Pfft. Obviously that was not a necessary step.”

Cas wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and pulls the other man toward him. Dean’s still got his hands pressed to the wall, but his eyes are closed and one of his legs is starting to bend at the knee and press up between Cas’s legs. 

“Should we…?” Sam makes a half-hearted gesture at breaking them up. You give him the stink eye.

“You don’t think Dean could get out of that if he wanted to? Dean?”

Sam considered your words with a tilt of his head and seems to find them valid. Dean’s hands peel off the wall just about then and dig into Cas’s hair. Cas breaks the kiss long enough to gaze at Dean’s panting face, then they are gone, with a whoosh of beating wings.

Sam steps out into the empty space and looks around the rafters. “You, uh, think they’ll call and tell us where they are?”

“No.” 

“So um, how long…?”

You shrug. “If it’s anything like the show, then about three days. We’ll have the place to ourselves for a while.”

“I feel like I should have known Dean was gay.”

“He’s not gay, he’s bi. The most invisible of all sexual orientations. We’ll watch some Torchwood while their gone. And if you think about it, you did know. I mean how surprised are you, really?”

“Very.” Sam shakes his head, a smile tickling the edges of his lips. “I thought he’d go to his grave without ever letting that butch mask slip.”

There are a string of thoughts in your head. Sam must have seen Dean sneak off for some truck stop restroom sex? He must have. And no one grows up the way they did without figuring out how teenage boys make money in bars. It's not like anyone is born hustling pool. It's not like there are lots of bars that would let a 15 year old inside the doors to stand around a pool table. Sam's smiling, do you need to puncture that? Hasn’t the man got enough guilt?

“Sam, haven't you and Dean ever talked about how teenage boys make money in bars? You know, before they're the best pool shark around?”

Sam looks at you befuddled and then a slow horror starts to creep across his face. 

“No,” Sam says. “I don’t think that Dean ever had to—" he swallows "No. Dad always left money. We weren’t that poor. What kind of question is that?”

He looks at you and you just look back at him. You don’t have anything to say about this, not really. _Deprivation._ What a terrible word. The lack of things. The moral responsibility for that lack attached to the person lacking it. As if poverty itself were a moral failing.

“That’s the fan theory?” Sam glares at you. His voice dropping almost to a whisper. “That Dean was a teen prostitute? And that’s why he’s bi?”

“No. He’s bi because he was born that way,” you say. Sam looks so upset. You want to pet his cheek, rub down that vein throbbing at his temple. He’s so much taller than you, you'd never reach. “But, people taking advantage of him, when he was younger, that might be why he’s fought it, and rounded himself down for so long. Why he couldn’t accept love from Castiel as long as he was Cas instead of Ellie.”

Sam runs his hands through his hair. He looks overwhelmed and angry. You stumble forward and put both your arms around his middle. Your ear is pressed to his sternum and you can hear his heartbeat. He doesn’t hug you back, at least not at first. He puts his hands on your shoulders and you figure he’s staring at the ceiling. He makes a sniffling sound and you think he might be holding back tears. You squeeze harder. 

“This is going to be really good for him,” you say.

Sam snorts, a snotty wet chuckle. “Never, ever, ever, mention this fan theory to him. Okay?”

“I swear.” 

He sighs and lets his arms come down and circle you. “Three days, huh, what are we going to do?”


	13. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Listen, there is one last theory"

It actually takes Dean and Cas four days to reappear. 

For the rest of that first day you and Sam play “spot the difference,” trading tales of books and TV shows and looking for whats similar and what isn’t. Half way through the afternoon he ups the stakes. Whoever finds something different gets to demand a piece of clothing from the other one. You win. Because you cheat. You make him prove all his claims, but he can’t verify anything you say. When he’s naked he finally figures out the scam. He declares it’s time for the spanking you talked about. Then the chase is on. 

You escape a few times, using your smaller size: diving under the war room table and squeezing between shelves. In the end he captures you with a trick. He swings down like Tarzan from a ledge you didn’t know about and corners you. You are both hot and breathless by then. Well you are. He's barely ruffled by the workout: only his erection and the squint of his eyes giving anything away. You make the Tarzan joke. He starts making that gorilla whooping sound, which is funny, and startling. Then he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder.

He doesn't bother carrying you up the stairs to his room. Not when Dean isn’t going to be home for days. Jane succumbs to the Lord of the Jungle on the library table. 

That night he fusses with the pillows on the bed. If he turns his second one at just the right angle the top corner fits under his head and the bottom corner under yours. Then he can keep one arm under the pillow and under your head, while he wraps the other big arm around you, and pull you into his chest. He tucks you under his chin. 

He’s there when you wake up, still pulling you protectively into his chest, but he's not asleep. He’s reading. Holding the book with the arm under your head. You don’t know how long he’s been awake. He kisses the top of your head and says that he’s happy to let you sleep in longer if you want. 

On that second day you cook. It starts when Sam asks you to check the freezer for more coffee beans. You find a stash of black frozen bananas. Sam says he uses them in smoothies, which you find doubtful. After a little more rummaging you find everything you need to make banana bread. 

“Loaf or muffins?” you ask.

“Muffins!” he says without any hesitation. “They travel better”

You cook banana muffins. Then you make Sam take you to the grocery store for fresh ingredients. You make your Jewish grandmother’s brisket, the one that takes a can of beer and a whole bottle of steak sauce. Then you make your other grandmother’s Crisco biscuits. Both recipes are winners. Literally. The biscuits had a blue ribbon from the Lamar County fair, while the brisket was a secret that the Temple Beth Shalom sisterhood had held over the heads of the Congregation Beth El sisterhood for two decades of Houston cook-offs. You blend the leftover beef juice with the leftover flour and to make your own Tex-a-Jew gravy. Then serve it all with salad, green beans, and pan-fried summer squash. 

Sam helps. He takes orders in the kitchen, washing, cutting, finding any tool you need. There's too much food for just the two of you, but it makes him so happy to have the enormous spread. You regale him with stories of other meals, because bragging is easy: falafel, humus, and that watermelon salad you learned to make at Jewish summer camp. Smoked salmon onigiri that you learned how to make from a college roommate. The empanadas and enchiladas that turned out pretty good and the mole that didn’t. 

He talks about road food. The best gumbo in Louisiana comes from a tiny town just down the river from Baton Rouge. Lobster rolls in upstate Maine. His personal preference for Memphis barbecue over Carolina barbecue, though Carolina has better sides and better sweet tea. You get slightly giddy when you realize that you both love snowballs from Casey’s in Austin. 

At one point he leans forward, and starts spilling out a list of all the best food you can make for road trips. He’s planning with his hands, gaming out how Dean will reject onigri at first and then eat them all while Sam is napping. You bite your lip listening to him. When the fall to reality comes, it comes suddenly: a stutter of his breath that catches the words in his throat, a slump in his shoulders, a droop in his eyes as he looks at you and realizes that you won’t be there. This, right now, might be the only meal you’ll cook for him. 

He looks away. You reach out and grab his hand before he can hide them both under the table. The leftovers get packed up in silence.

When the kitchen is clean he touches you as if you are fragile. A soap bubble. A souffle that might collapse at any loud sound. 

The third day is an interrogation. Sam keeps you in bed and asks every question he can think to ask. Not about monsters or fan theories, but just about you. Where you grew up. Where you went to school. What it was like. He asks about your sister, and your parents. You try and keep up. You try and answer honestly. But you know that what he’s looking for isn’t actually in any of the questions he’s asking. You Interrupt his questions with kisses as often as you can. You try to give his body the reassurance you can’t give his head. It almost works.

The fourth day, you are both expecting Dean and Cas to show up at any moment. You get up and get dressed and spend the day in cloud of dark, muted, expectation. You talk about books. You watch Netflix. When nobody shows up by lunchtime, you have Sam take you to the store and then you make onigri. When the rice balls are all carefully sealed in Tupperware, Sam picks you up and carries you to his room. He locks the door. 

“Even if they come home right now,” he says. “It’s too late to send you home today.” 

“It’s not even 3:30?” you reply. But you don’t fight it much, because by that point he is kissing your neck and pulling off your shirt and you don’t really want to argue. You want to memorize him like the multiplication tables. Count the vertebra in his spine and calculate the angel of his joints. You realize you must be thinking out loud again when he starts muttering back at you about sin curves and calculations toward the vanishing point. You both fight sleep. You both lose. 

Dean and Cas are back the next morning. The smell of Sam’s musk next to you is spiked with the smell of coffee. There is a rattling of pots and pans along with the sound of his heartbeat and his breathing, the murmur of other voices, the shuffle of footsteps that aren't far enough away. You sigh and lean back into him. He squeezes you tighter. You both lay there, listening, not talking about what the sounds mean. The time stretches. You don’t know if it’s ten minutes or thirty before he rolls you onto your back and presses his lips to yours. You cup his face and pull at the kiss desperately. The two of you make love in near silence, hiding from the world. 

Eventually, Dean bangs on the door. “You can’t stay in there all day,” he says. 

Sam clenches his jaw. He wants to fight. He's fists his hands and then opens them again. Stretching out his long fingers against the sheets. Frustrated, with nowhere to put it.

“We’ll be down in a minute,” you say. You aren't sure if you are saving him or betraying him. “Save us some coffee.”

“Too late for that,” Dean replies through the door.

“Then make a fresh pot,” Sam orders. There's an edge to his voice. Angry and cold.

You expect a come back from Dean, a snarky quip, something, anything, but there's just a long silence instead. “Okay,” he says flatly. 

Somehow that really puts a pin in it. Dean's moved into clean up crew mode. This adventure is ending.

When you get downstairs, Dean and Cas are trying to act like nothing has changed between them. But it obviously has. Dean keeps smiling at Cas, and Cas keeps smiling back. There's also a fresh pot of coffee.

Sam takes a deep breath looking at them. “You know, I’m really happy that you two are happy. You deserve it. It’s good.”

“Thank you,” Cas says sincerely. 

Dean blushes and immediately flees the room. Sam snorts and pours his coffee. You are proud of him. You want to give him a high five, but you hang back. You and Sam are also trying to act like nothing has changed. Because Winchesters. Which means that Dean has noticed. You wonder if that's part of why he fled. There shouldn't have to be a scale, Dean's happiness bobbing up and down against Sam's. Happiness isn't a zero sum game, even if the show made it feel that way some times. Sam and Dean could both have love interests. 

Shockingly, you manage to keep all those thoughts inside your head. Which means the kitchen is awkwardly silent.

Cas speaks first. “I know how to send you home,” he says, “but it will take me another day to gather the ingredients. I imagine it’s hard being trapped here, away from all your friends and family.”

“Well, my roommate is going to have a conniption. And my job, too. Can you write me a disaster note? _Please excuse the undersigned from the last week of responsibilities, she’s been caught up in a trans-dimensional fiasco._ ”

“No,” Cas says.

“I can make you some hospital papers,” Sam offers. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking down into his coffee cup. You smile at him anyway. "Something to make it look like you were in a car accident, or a short coma."

"Just don't call it a sex coma okay?"

Sam snorts and looks at you then. He smiles a wry twisted smile.

"That's good advice," Cas says. "Sex comas don't actually exist. The physiological term is _refractory period._ And while it is important to respect that, especially for the human male. It doesn't last long enough to explain a week long absence."

Sam's head has tilted almost completely sideways while listening to Cas. You're not hiding your own amusement very well either. "I'm guessing it was an educational vacation, Cas," you say.

"That is not untrue," Cas replies. "Though I think a more accurate term would be _debauched._ " On that note he disappears in a flutter of wings. 

You and Sam both start laughing. Laughter makes everything better.

Sam sets up his computer. You start puttering around in the kitchen. It’s something to do. You can make falafel and hummus, after all. Someone has to make lunch. Once you get started you make another round of muffins, too. Lemon ginger. 

Dean wanders into the kitchen just as the muffins are coming out of the oven. He steals one. Not that you expect anything different. The whole time he's chomping it down, Dean alternates between squinting at you suspiciously, and glancing sadly over at Sam. You feel guilty. You don't want to feel guilty. You're an adult. Sam's an adult. You knew what was going to happen the whole damned time. Well, maybe your didn't _know,_ know. But that's a totally useless line of thinking. You aren't going to apologize for yourself. Or your feelings. Or your ability to act on them.

You sigh. Dean is not the enemy here. He cares about Sam more than anyone. “Listen Dean," you say, "there's one last theory I haven’t told Sam about, because it’s not a fandom theory. It’s just a me theory.” If you don’t tell him now, when are you ever going to get to tell anybody.

“Uh-huh,” he says, which is about as encouraging as you could hope.

“I think it’s possible that Sam has a kid he doesn’t know about.”

Dean has more expressions in that moment than you can count or name. “With who?” he asks. 

“Someone from when he was soulless and fucking his way across the country? There’s no fan consensus to drop this into. Just that it would be the next big Winchester family thing. The one thing that would actually tempt either of you off the field again, which kind of makes it something inevitable. If you're a writer.”

“Why tell me and not him?”

“Because you won’t forget, but you won’t overreact either.”

Dean grunts his agreement, then points at the falafel mix. "I'm not eating that," he says.

You smile shrug, "Well, it is better after it's fried. Do you have a deep fryer in this kitchen?"

"Of course we do! We aren't savages."

There aren't any leftover falafel to pack up. You take that as a truce of some kind.

When Cas comes back, toward the end of the meal, everyone is lighter. Sam is teasing Dean about refractory periods and Dean is teasing Sam about all the leftovers in the fridge. Cas walks by the table and Dean slaps his ass. With everyone watching. Cas squawks.

“Get a room already,” Sam orders 

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They smile at each other and something settles into place. A lingering tension in Dean's shoulders evaporates. Cas starts setting up for the ritual. Sam gives you the forged hospital papers. You squeeze Sam’s arm in a thank you and he leans down so that you can kiss his cheek. It’s a little set of gestures that got easy when you were cooking together. You both move through them without thinking about it. But when Sam straightens, you see that Dean has shifted into maximum worry mode. Brow furrowed and face twisted with disapproval. It makes you madder than you can explain. Okay. Yes. You are going to be leaving a mess. Dean is going to have to buy Sam beer and porn. But at least Sam has Dean. Who's going to hold your hand about all this when you get home? Why does he have to piss all over these last few sweet moments? Sam sighs next to you, and out of the corner of your eye you see him slouch with embarrassment. That hurts, too. 

“Dean,” you say, making your voice all melted sugar, “has um, Cas ever talked to you about whether or not he can get pregnant? Cause that is actually a pretty popular fan theory? Were you using protection while you were away? And I don't mean keeping an angel blade under your pillow.”

Sam sniggers. Dean’s eyes bulge at you. You've won because nobody is thinking about you or Sam anymore. The focus is back on Dean's love life, where it belongs. Before anyone can say anything else, Castiel announces that he's got the spell assembled. It must be time to go. You get up from the table first. No chick flick moments.

You join Cas in the middle of a fancy chalk circle. You don’t kiss Sam goodbye. In fact, you do your best not to look at him. _Adults,_ you remind yourself, crossing your arms pressing the papers against your chest protectively. Out of the corner of your eye you catch Sam crossing his arms over his chest, too. Dean puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder. There is a throbbing in your ears as the spell takes hold, like a plane pressurizing for take-off. You change your mind. You want to see him. You try and focus on Sam through the vertigo. You’d swear that he gives you smile and a wink. 

Then, suddenly, you’re home, standing in front of your laundry. Nothing looks different. Like, nothing. You don’t think that a week has actually passed here.

It’s like it all only happened in your head. Expect there are papers clutched to your chest. Stupid fake hospital papers. You flip though them and something catches your eye. Something that is hand written and personal and from Sam to you. Fucking Winchesters. They always make you cry.


	14. What Happens on Screen isn't Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You stay home sick and spend the day prepping nervously for the episode. I mean how nervous can you be about TV show? It’s not really an accurate story of Sam and Dean, not the ones you know. But it feels like a window, a chance.

You can’t help yourself. You end up trolling Tumblr and Pinterest for pictures of Sam. And it can’t be Jared Padalecki, it has to be Sam. After three unproductive days at the office, you decide to cut yourself off. You make it about 10 hours and then a Supernatural promo comes on. It’s got a dybukk box and mentions of Rufus and, most importantly, a rabbi that looks like you. Well you could pretend to be her for Halloween if someone gave you all the make-up. All of the make-up.

It’s too much, you spend the next 24 hours desperately searching the internet for spoilers. 

You stay home sick and spend the day prepping nervously for the episode. I mean how nervous can you be about a TV show? It’s not really an accurate story of Sam and Dean, not the ones you know. But it feels like a window, a chance.

The story starts with Sam and Dean getting a call from the Rabbi with your name. She calls on an old Bobby phone. She got the number from Rufus. She’s looking for the Judah Initiative. Everything about it feels like an inside joke.

Sam and Dean offer to help, since they can’t put her in touch with anyone. She’s been working to hand copy an ancient manuscript. She calls it the Book of Solitude and Sorrows, but as soon as she mentions a book you know(!) its going to be the Fall of Quafkiel. Dean even drops Ellie’s name in his first conversation with the Rabbi, but nobody makes the connection that Ellie is Castiel is Qaufkiel.

The first person they meet is a McLovin looking dude named Joel. He works for the temple and is there to let them in. He’s worried about the Rabbi and the possessed girl that the Rabbi has trapped in a spell circle. 

Sam and Dean look at each other suspiciously. Then back at Joel.

“The Rabbi’s a witch? Is that legal?” Dean asks.

Joel looks at them aghast. “She’s not a witch. The kabalistic traditions developed lots of magic for dealing with evil spirits. Do you think Catholics invented exorcism out of thin air? They stole it from us, just like everything else.” Joel turns on his heel, as if he’s going to lead them on to the Rabbi, and then quickly turns back around, “except the pedophilia. I mean, every community has bad people in it, but we don’t have alter boys and we don’t have a fetish for celibacy, so not so much in the clergy.”

“Where’s the monster?” Sam asks, slightly amused, but also ready to get on with it.

“Right. Sorry. This way.”

They meet with just the Rabbi first. She explains that she has the dybukk trapped in a chalk circle. The same type that are protecting the book. Go Isaac Bashevis Singer. Dean says "It looks fast," and you plotz. 

She continues to explain that the dybukk is a ghost that haunts the book. It’s recopied by hand every 300 years. The person who copies it gets ground into the pages, skin, sweat, and tears. The last rabbi to do it, well he had some issues with unrequited love. While she’s been in charge of the book and its box, she worked her best to take the necessary precautions. Layers of circles, like a scientist keeping a clean room.

“But?” Sam asks

“But, Becky, my friend, she heard me telling a story about Rufus and got so excited.”

Sam and Dean exchange worried glances with each other. You guffaw. There are no coincidences, right? 

“She’s had some run ins with the supernatural before,” the Rabbi continues, “and I thought, I just, there’s no one I can talk to about this work. She felt it was really important. She made me feel like it was important, again. I guess I told her more than I should have. I thought she believed me when I explained how dangerous this was.”

Sam immediately suggests burning the book and the Rabbi refuses. The book has been protected for 5,700 year. It’s supposed to save the world. 

“How?” they ask her, “What does it say.”

She balks. She hasn’t finished translating it yet. It’s not in Hebrew proper, but some adjacent dialect that nobody seems to know much about. Sam takes one look and declares it Enochian. Then the boys are on board to save it. Dean steps out to call Ellie, resident Enochian reader.

Next we find out who's haunted. It’s _the_ Becky. Of course, it is. Sam’s a bit rude about the situation and the Rabbi is not nearly as hesitant to correct him as you were. You want to give your avatar a high five. 

“Are you this judgmental about all the innocent souls your supposed to be helping?” She says squinting her eyes at him. 

“What?”

“I don’t know what you have against her. Maybe you're just jaded, but I consider Rebecca Rosen to be an exceptional person. She delivers meals on the weekends. She tutors for our adult literacy program. And she mentors at risk girls though a local creative writing program.” 

“I didn’t know any of that.”

“Humph,” the Rabbi snorts. “She’s my friend. So for the rest of the time that you are accepting my hospitality, I will not see you rolling your eyes, or making an adolescent “yuck” face, or doing that disapproving thing you do with your mouth, or any other hint of disrespect. Do you understand?”

“That thing I do with my mouth?”

“You know what I mean.”

Sam’s mouth twitches mischievously. You groan from where you are watching on your couch. This is not going to end well for him.

“I don’t think you are taking me seriously.”

“I am,” Sam holds up his hands in surrender, but his eyes are laughing. “I totally am. Becky’s your friend and you’re worried about her, it’s just,” Sam looks at the possessed Becky, sighs, and rolls his eyes, he might not even know that he's doing it, “there are some things about her _previous history_ with the supernatural that she might not have told you.”

Sam bitchfaces as he looks from Becky to the Rabbi and back again. The Rabbi's eyes narrow like a cat on a hunt. 

The scene cuts away to Dean on the phone leaving a cute, rambling message for Ellie. Sam yelps in the distance and there is a heavy thud. Dean runs toward the commotion.

“Sammy!”

What he finds is Sam on the floor pinned with the Rabbi’s knee between his shoulder blades. She looks up, sees Dean and drops Sam’s arm, and dusts herself off. She looks slightly embarrassed. Dean looks around, sees that Dybbuk Becky is still caged, though she is giggling wildly, then looks around again, to see if anyone else is there.

“So--?” He gestures from the Rabbi to Sam with an open question on his face.

“Israeli Summer Camp,” she says with shrug. 

“Oh.” Dean looks impressed. He glances down at Sam, who looks shocked, but is rolling himself back up to his feet. The only injury is to his pride.

Dean looks back at the Rabbi and wrinkles his brow. “Why?”

“That thing he does with his mouth,” she says with a shrug. Then makes the bitchface herself/

Dean’s eyebrows go up in understanding, and he swallows a laugh. “His bitchface, yea, that can get under your skin.”

“I’m not calling it that,” she says sternly. She turns her head and looks back at Sam. A wash of embarrassment, or maybe its guilt, passes over her face. Whatever the emotion it is, she’s clearly trying to swallow it. 

She pushes back her shoulders stiffly and offers Sam a hand up. He takes it. 

“Well,” she says overflowing with awkwardness. “Now we understand each other, so...” Then, without finishing her thought, she flees the room.

Dean grins at Sam. 

“Shut up,” Sam says.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Well. Don’t.” He huffs out of the room after the Rabbi.

Dean chuckles to himself. " _Israeli Summer Camp._ " 

It looks at first like Sam is going to chase her down. He’s got legitimate problems with Becky, stuff the Rabbi probably doesn’t know about. He’s got that lawyer samurai look. But when he finds her, she’s crying in a small chapel, so he hangs back. Sam and his thing for broken birds. 

She looks like she’s trying really hard not to cry. Pulling herself up straight, rolling back her shoulders, gulping air, wiping her eyes and shaking off her fingers. It’s just not working very well. The tears keep falling. Just when you think that Sam is going to stop being a peeper and go and talk to her, Joel shows up. His McLovin self stepping in to hug and comfort her, cock-blocking your boy.

The rest of the show passes without much flirting between Sam and the Rabbi. She’s snippy with him. And then he’s snippy at Dean. Who exchanges confused glances with McLovin. Poor Sammy. She’s not what he thought she would be. Every time they interact Sam looks vaguely embarrassed, and vaguely disappointed.

The dybbuk is apparently a clingy ghost. Last time around it possessed a bride on her wedding night. In the end the groom’s love for the bride and willingness to sacrifice himself was the only thing that drove it off. Becky, though, is single.

“Tell me about Chuck,” the Rabbi asks, “would he come down to help just cause it’s her?”

“Chuck’s a good guy,” Dean replies, but his tone is waffling, doubtful.

“That’s a no.” The Rabbi sighs and rubs her forehead. “Not really surprising. From what Becky’s told me he had some deep, unexamined sexism.”

“That's a bit unfair”

“Mistress Magda?”

“Okay. Yeah, he’s got a bit of a virgin/whore complex.” 

The rabbi grunts, a doubtful, disapproving sound. “There is nothing worse than giving a guy what he says he wants, and having him run away screaming.”

Dean closes his eyes and gulps. “T.M.I., Rabbi. I can't think about Chuck, or Becky, that way.”

The Rabbi rubs at the bridge of her nose. “Any other ex’s you know about? Someone that she's shared any amount of real love with? Or hell just some one she’d respond to who won’t be an ass about it?”

Dean glances at Sam who doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Not really,” Dean replies.

“Becky is so sweet and generous and strong, and I don’t know if she’s got the worst taste in men, or if men are just the worst. There should be someone out there that loves her.”

Sam looks like a deer in caught in headlights. Or a moose. A moose caught in the headlights.

“Men are the worst,” Dean says blandly. “Easy choice.” Sam glares at him, but the Rabbi doesn’t see.

“Okay,” she says “then I guess it’s me.”

“You think you can be Anna to her Elsa?” Dean raises an eyebrow. While Sam looks up with his forehead furrowed.

“Something like that,” the Rabbi says, but there isn’t any passion in her words, just duty and weariness. 

There is a brief interlude with Crowley. He offers to kill the dybbuk in exchange for the book. Or to kill lots of other stuff, in exchange for the book. Which make Sam and Dean even more convinced that it’s worth saving and that they should get Ellie there to translate it.

They discuss why Dean needs to just apologize to Ellie already. She’ll hear it if he prays it.

When things go bad, they go bad fast. Dybbuk Becky is mean. She calls out Sam and Dean. “You don’t actually care about Rebecca. I see how you recoil from her with disgust. I am the only one that loves her!” Then flings them across the room.

She calls out the Rabbi. “Guilty little girl. You want to offer yourself to me now? You think that would bring him back? Make up for what you did? I see through your lies. I have a better bride now.”

In the end it’s Joel that comes through. He’s got a crush on Becky. _Awww._ He’s been trying to ask her out, but she’s so pretty and popular, and he’s shy. It splits the dybbuk. Becky’s voice comes through with a “Really?” while the dybbuk tries to say that he’s lying and just wants to impress the Rabbi and the hunters, wants everyone to think he’s a hero, too.

Joel laughs. “You gotta be kidding me. I just confessed that I’m too scared to talk to a girl.”

He pulls Becky out of the dybbuk, just gets her to walk across the chalk line. The Rabbi traps the spirit back in its box. 

Becky, fully awake, sees Sam and Dean and has a conniption. “Guys. Guys! I've been trying to get in touch with you. You are never going to believe it. Castiel is an archangel!”

Yeah Becky! Someone’s gotta speak for the fan theories. She tells them what she put together about the names. She shows them the Wikipedia article. She says the fan boards have all confirmed it. 

Ellie appears about then, not looking at Sam or Dean but focused on Becky. “I am not an archangel.”

You know what comes next. You lived it. 

Once the dust settles, Ellie is clutching the book to her chest, weeping, and Dean is trying awkwardly to comfort her. He pats her back and suddenly she turns and clings to his waist. “They’ve lied to me about everything. Everything! I’ve been so guilty, about falling, about you, about the Nephilim.”

“Metatron tricked you Elle," Dean says comfortingly, patting her back, "and that was ages ago.”

She looks up at him bleary-eyed. “Not that Nephilim.”

He looks at her confused and she sighs and looks back at him. It’s a Look. A _look_ look. A please-understand-me-so-I-don’t-have-to-say-this-out-loud look. A wave of shock slides over Dean and his mouth drops into an _O._ Ellie gives a nod and a grimace/smile. Then there is a whoosh of wings and they are gone.

Holy Crap! Your twitter is blowing up. You are so glad you gave alternate universe Dean the warning you did.

Sam is left alone with Becky, Joel, and the Rabbi. 

Becky is bouncing with joy. “Congratulations Sam! You're going to be an uncle!”

Sam blinks at her. Then blinks some more. The Rabbi clears the room. She sends Becky and Joel off to have dinner, and offers Sam some scotch. 

They sit there, drinking silently for a while. “I owe you an apology” the Rabbi says, at last, startling Sam. She’s so red, her cheeks are just flaming. “I shouldn’t have assaulted you today.” 

Sam blinks. “Well it’s not how I like to settle arguments, but you’ve met my brother, so…” he shrugs.

“Thank you, but it really, really, really, wasn’t appropriate. I used to be better at” she uses her hand to show stuff coming out of her mouth, “using my words. I _am_ usually better at using my words. But this, today—” she looks away from him, holding back tears. There is an uncomfortable silence.

“It was you, wasn’t it” Sam says, quietly. “It was your wedding night.”

She looks back at him and nods, wiping her eyes. He lets out a long sigh, and takes another sip of his scotch. 

“She wasn’t my wife," he says. "She wasn’t even my fiance. Just the first girl I thought could be. The one I went ring shopping for," he looks down at his glass. "It was a demon, slit her throat and burned her. And he made sure I saw it.”

The Rabbi nods. She looks off in the middle–distance and sips her own scotch. “He wasn’t Jewish. He wouldn’t have been anywhere near this thing if I hadn’t inherited it. I didn’t know anything about it," she closes her eyes and swallows. "That's not right. I knew that I wasn’t supposed to open it. I knew the stories said it was dangerous. I just didn’t believe them.”

Sam looks at her kindly. That seems to make her uncomfortable. She wipes her eyes again and takes a gulp of scotch. You wish you knew who she was talking about.

“What was his name?” Sam asks.

She replies and you blink. _Him?_ Yea you got along, but it never went anywhere. That’s who your doppelganger married? Really? He's the guy that died to save her from a cursed ghost? You look down at your phone and dig him up on Facebook. He’s single. And he looks…good. 

“Will it help?” the Rabbi asks after a while, drawing your attention back to the show. 

“What?” Sam asks, confused.

The Rabbi gulps. “The first story was that the book was haunted. That proved true. The other was that it was going to save the world. Still waiting for confirmation on that. I’m guessing you know something, because Becky seems to think that you and your brother have already stopped one apocalypse. And she says your brother is married to that angel, who was just weeping over the nasty thing and clutching it like a lost child,” she looks away and takes another gulp. “Sorry, poor choice of words.”

“Or a perfect one,” Sam says. 

She opens her eyes wide at him in shock, and then a slow smile creeps into the corners of her mouth. She sighs and leans back into her chair. “Do you think angel babies stay in their cribs or do they float above them? Will you have to put a ribbon on its ankle like it’s a balloon? Or will it teleport like it’s mom and you’ll have to sew GPS trackers into all the onesies?”

“We’ll paint the wall with angel charms so that it can’t get far, and hopefully it will heal quickly whenever it runs itself into a wall. Whoosh, thunk, boop." Sam illustrates each sound with hand gesture: upward sweep of the hands, taps his right fingers into his left palm, index finger to the nose. "Good as new.”

“Such an optimist!”

Sam raises his glass, “ _Morituri te salutant!_ ” He downs the last of his glass in a single gulp.

The rabbi snorts, which turns into a giggle, that stretches into broad laughter. Sam watches her and then starts chuckling himself. You get that. You are pretty well versed in black humor. The color of the room warms slightly. The light softens around them. Sam keeps an eye on the Rabbi as her laughs fade down to hiccups and then sighs.

“It might,” he says after a moment. “Whatever is in that book, if it makes Castiel an archangel again, it might just save the world.”

She nods, a sharp, decisive little gesture. “I want to help. Even if its nothing but sending you boxes and boxes of blessed chalk, I want to help.”

Sam smiles wanly. So she presses on. “I can do more than that though. I am, uh, really, really bad at reading Enochian, but I am the only person other than your angel that can read it at all.”

“You’re not the only person,” Sam says. his mouth twists into a cocky smirk. 

The Rabbi raises her eyebrow. “Touché." She leans forward and tilts her head coyly. "Wanna have a look at my notes?”

“Yes, actually,” Sam leans forward, too, scooting to the front of his chair.

“Then you have to let me help,” her voice is dripping with gloat. It shimmers like the layer of fat that comes with fast food. A smile tickles the edges of her mouth. “You are doing that thing with your mouth, again. Does that mean I've won?”

Sam is giving her the bitchface. He closes his eyes, sucks a breath in through his nose and then just glares at her. 

She purses her mouth and squints at him. “We have not known each other long enough for you to look at me like that. Did I not set you on your ass earlier?”

Sam snorts. “You only got the drop on me because I thought, as a Rabbi, you weren’t allowed to use violence.”

“That’s Buddhists," the rabbi smirks, "I am a surgeon with a machine gun.”

Sam furrows his brow. “You’ve shot people with a machine gun?"

The rabbi dodges her head, hiking one shoulder, and then the other. “Targets," she admits reluctantly. "But I won the camp sniper award.”

Sam closes his eyes and it’s clear that he is trying to hold back laughter. 

“If you don’t start taking me seriously, I am going to put you on your back again.”

“I thought we were using our words now.”

“I’m trying, but you are just," she huffs, nostrils flaring, "freakishly good at getting under my skin.” She grits her teeth. “It's your mouth. It just. Humph. When it does that thing-- I just can’t think straight!”

Sam leans forward in his seat, frowning, pushing into her space. There is a wicked twinkle in his eye. When he speaks, his voice is voice is low and sultry. “We have not known each other long enough for you to say something like that to me.” 

It hangs in the air. The Rabbi's mouth cracks open slightly, her chest rises and falls, when her breath catches. Their eyes are locked, and when she doesn't pull away, Sam's nostrils flare. He twists his mouth into a smile and boom(!), she dives for it. The screen fades to black.

You, on the couch, whoop loudly! For both of them. Then you remind yourself that the show is not real. This show does not mean that the Sam you met is now hooking up with the Rabbi. But somehow it does. Somehow, it means that its more likely than not. Because somehow, these stories touch your reality. They change it, or you. You look down at the phone in you hand. It still has the doppelganger's husband's profile open. You smile a little. He was a sci-fi fan, way back when. Maybe he’d like your book. You type out a message and send it.

You can’t stop the words. They just spill out of you.


End file.
